Wings and Wildflowers
by OceansAria
Summary: Drabbles and one-shots of Beth and Daryl - both AU and canon.
1. Shot through the Heart

It wasn't the piercing sunlight or the drought in my throat that woke me; it was the throbbing, pulsating, _smoldering_ agony raging beneath the skin between my shoulder and chest. I saw disheveled hair through my squinted eyes. Reaching blindly, I felt a hand grab mine.

"D-Daryl?"

"Stay still. You got shot."

If I hadn't heard it with my own delirious ears, I would've sworn that wasn't Daryl Dixon's voice rattling with worry.

"W-Where are w-we?" I coughed, red spotting my lips and the taste of iron flooding my tastebuds. "Are w-we still at t-the hospital?"

"Don't move, Bethie," answered a familiar voice. Maggie appeared next to Daryl, speaking frantically fast. "We gotta get the slug out before you bleed to death. Stay very still, you hear?"  
"Maggie?"

"Yes, honey, it's me. Just hold on, okay?"  
I gasped as extreme pressure was applied to the wound. My brains were racing around inside my skull like bumper cars. I pumped my grip on Daryl's hand. "You're alive. I told you she was alive, Daryl. I _told_ you."

"Yeah, you did."

Everything that conspired after that I remembered by the rushing of my pulse in my ears:

"Daryl, you gotta hold her real still!"

"Tryin' to!" he barked.

"Carol! Come here! We need you to hold her down!"

Boots pounding the earth. Weight on my torso.

Carol cried, "Go! Do it now."

"I'm so sorry, Bethie, this is gonna hurt like hell—"

The agony I'd felt when I awoke was nothing compared to the agony of a knife in my skin, my muscles, tendons, ligaments—shredding me apart and resetting the level of pain intake I could stand.

My screams blocked out the rest.

* * *

When I woke up again, Maggie was at my bedside and Daryl was standing right outside the door. The dark room I lain in was lightened by candles. My sister walked me through everything that had happened, starting with how I ended up shot.

"You stabbed Dawn alright, but you caught her in her vest and we didn't know she'd pulled her gun. She didn't have it aimed right," Maggie explained. "We were terrified she'd killed you—Daryl took care of her either way—because you dropped like a fly. She got you in your shoulder. We had to act fast. Daryl carried you out of there, and as soon as we could, we got somewhere safe to take the bullet out." She picked my hand up from the covers and squished it between both of her own, her lips crushing down on my knuckles. Tears beaded in the corners of her bright eyes. "Don't know what I would've done if I'd found you again only for you to be gone."

I smiled. "Same here. And what about this place?"

Maggie sniffled, glancing around the ramshackle room. "Sasha found it. We ain't far from the road."

"How long have I been out?"

"Not quite three days. I was gone most the day yesterday on a run for bandages and medicine for you. Daryl and Carl stayed close. Kept watch."

I glanced at Daryl as he stood guard at the open door. Crossbow ready, stance poised, expression schooled into scowling neutrality. "So he killed Dawn?" I whispered.

Maggie nodded. "Claimed it was a reflex."

"Don't care what it was," I breathed. "That bitch deserved what was comin' to her. At least those people are free now. Wait—is Noah here?"

My sister's eyes widened at my unsympathetic tone. Stammering, "Yeah. He made it out with us."

"Is he—is he okay? Dawn didn't try to hurt him before Daryl took her out?"

"Not that I know. Rick said those officers didn't put up a fight about gettin' him back."

"Will you go get him for me?"

"Sure." Maggie kissed my forehead as she rose. "Need anything else?"

"Water?"

Her fingers stroked my loose hair methodically, as if the action was more to steady her than me, which I had the feeling it was. I hated that I'd scared her so.

"Absolutely."

She left Daryl and I to it. For once, I didn't have to start the conversation.

"Didn't know what to do when they took you," he said, startling me. "I followed for a while then I lost 'em."

I sat up the best I could manage. "You tried."

"Mm hmm."

One candle was snuffed out by the sudden gust of wind through the broken window, but there was till enough for him to see the indebted smile on my face when he actually ventured to look. "That's what matters."

"Yeah but then you went and 'bout screwed the whole thing up by stabbing that lady."

My cheeks glowed violet in shame. "I was just—"

"I know," he interrupted, shuffling his boots to a more comfortable position against the wall. "It was stupid."

"Stupid?" I could feel the bile-like taste of protestation rushing into my palate.

"Mm hm. Too brave for your own good."

The sour tang went away. "Ah."

"Proud of you."

"Really now?"

If looks could make your bones transform into butter and your tendons and muscles to disintegrate, then Daryl had mastered that power.

"Really."

"T-Thank you."

"Don't do anything like that again."

I grinned ear to ear. "No promises."

Maggie and Noah's voices mingled in the hallway outside, and Daryl swiveled to stand at attention.

"You're too good to me, you know that?" I blurted it, murdering the tenderness meant to be threaded in the expression.

"Stop."

"You are." A delirious thought entered my mind when I was staring at him and he was looking anywhere but at me: _I wish he'd look at me like he did that night at the funeral home one more time._ Which led to a number of outrageous yearnings.

I wished the walkers hadn't knocked on our door. I wished we'd never gotten separated. I wished I could tell him everything I thought about at Grady Memorial; how often I imagined him there with me, how nearly every waking second I dreamed of him kicking in the barricades of the hospital, grabbing me, and running for the hills. Or vice versa where I broke myself out and found him not far away, and we could go on as we had. Sleeping, scavenging, moving through the days as one.

I cleared my throat, regaining his attention. "Thank you for that," I finished at last.

Daryl dipped his chin. "Welcome."

Maggie popped over the threshold of my room with Noah, who succeeded my sister's spot at my bedside. Maggie sat on the edge a stool and held out the canteen for me to sip. Whatever they said fell on defiant ears; for all I could hear, see, think of, was the man standing watch tirelessly at my door.


	2. Reunion (ver 1)

Clutching him, crying. Clutching him, crying, whispering his name in relief over and over until it became a song under my breath. "Daryl." My casted fingers knotted in his hair the best they could; when we parted, our faces so close, I couldn't stop the urge and so I went for it. We collided in a kiss—passionately uncertain and woeful perfection—and when he looked me in the eyes again, his hands running roughly over my tearstained cheeks, he smirked.

"Missed you, girl."

I coughed out a laugh. His face was dirty and slick with sweat, but he was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen in all my years.

"God I missed you too."


	3. Exhibit A

She knew it wouldn't be his kind of thing; he liked the woods, hunting, shooting and stabbing things. He liked to drink cheap beer and get shit-faced drunk when he didn't feel too great about himself, which was at least seventy-five percent of the time. He liked Led Zepplin and smoking cigs until the atmosphere of his house was foggier than a London morning.

But she had to try.

"Thanks," Beth smiled at the elderly ticket lady, who in turn barked "Next!" and moved the line along, pushing the two of them further into the halls of the art museum."Here's your ticket." She grabbed her companion's hand and dropped the stub inside his palm. "Don't lose it."

Daryl simply grunted, balled up the ticket, and stuck both of his mitts in his jean pockets. She'd actually managed to get him into a proper long-sleeved shirt under his usual leather biker vest. From the odd looks they were already receiving from the crowds of families surrounding them, she could tell exactly what they were thinking: _They don't fit._ Beth wore a dress with leggings and ballet flats, her flaxen hair curled into soft ringlets and kept from her eyes by thin ribbon. She wasn't much shorter than Daryl, but with his dark hair, dark clothes, and gruff voice, the public automatically assumed he was a piece of white trailer trash that had no business in an art gallery.

She saw him as so much more.

"C'mon," Beth coaxed, glaring at a young mom who refused to stop staring when she took Daryl's hand. "The exhibit's this way."

"Why are we here?" Daryl asked fifteen minutes later when they stood in front of a painting that was simply named: _Watercolor #13._ He squinted at it and leaned in close for a better look, only for the security attendant to growl a threat from a few feet away. It took all the strength in Beth's arm to hold him back.

"Because I like art and I wanted you to come with me."

"This ain't art. Looks like some kid got into his mom's make-up and smeared it all over the damn place."

Beth smirked. "You're right. It does. But isn't it beautiful?"

"I could've made sumthin' like that."

"And I would've thought it was beautiful."

Daryl snorted. "Stop." Kicking back against the opposite wall, his shoulder brushing a priceless Monet—which angered the pudgy-faced security guard to an extent—he allowed her to examine the painting without his input.

"It's a woman's face."

"What?"

She reached out, my fingers ghosting over the canvas from an breath away. Now the security guard turned his sour glower on me.

"No. _Touching._ " The guard hissed.

"I'm not." Beth sang, batting her eyes. Tom, as his name tag read, blinked and froze, struck dumb. Ignoring the guard, she explained it to Daryl. "Look closer. There's her lips, and her eyes, and her nose."

Daryl's eyebrows shot up. "Don't see it."

"Cause you ain't lookin'. C'mere." She held out her hand, shook it all about, until he relented and took it, letting her drag him to where she stood waaaaay too close to the exposed masterpiece for poor Tom the security guard's comfort. "Her face is supposed to be hidden. Just gotta look close."

Daryl squinted at it until he gave up not even a full sixty seconds later.

"You know this art shit better than me. I'll go with your word on it."

They strolled the museum for a good slice of the afternoon; his warm palm rarely left hers, and her soft voice never lost its patience with his defiance agains seeing what she did. When they got back to his house, the motorcycle's engine puttering to a stop, she leaned forward from where she sat behind him to whisper in his ear, "You know, you're a piece of art to me."

He exhaled a chuckle as she hopped off and tossed the helmet at his chest, which he caught nimbly and with a smirk.

"And you're a piece of work."

Beth tangled her fingers in his hair, stepping closer. "I had fun."  
"Good thing someone did."

She kissed his forehead. "I love you."

One hand rested on her hip and tugged her until his heartbeat was thundering against her stomach.

"Love you too."

"How was it today with Mary Ella?" Maggie called out from the kitchen as Beth walked through the back door and kicked off the flats that had been cramping her feet all day. She leaned against the door frame, massaging the ball of her left foot, grinning insanely.

"It was amazing."

"Really?" Her sister appeared around the corner, wiping her hands on her jeans. "You had that much fun at an art museum?"

Beth hid her face so Maggie couldn't see her pink cheeks.

"More than I thought I would."


	4. Reading your Memories

_(Just wanted to throw in here that I know there's no possible way for Daryl to have found Beth's diary, but I thought it'd be cool if he somehow had. lol)_

* * *

 **(Consumed, 5x06)**

Carol remarked, "You love her."

"Yeah," he said, his fingertip pulling down the blinds, glare checking the perimeter. "So what?"

"Didn't think you'd be the type to have a girlfriend." She sounded sour and she knew it; could taste the tang as she said it. "Ever."

"She ain't my girlfriend."

"Oh?"

Daryl ambled across the room, removing his pack from his shoulders but leaving the crossbow. He dug around for his water bottle. "Just cuz you love somebody don't mean they're automatically yours."

"Guess that's true. " _When did he get so wise?_ She felt somewhat uneasy as she too took off her backpack and settled on the desktop as he continued to paw through the contents of his own bag. It was as if she no longer was sure that she knew exactly who Daryl was, to her or to their world. "What are you looking for?"

"Somethin' of Beth's."

"What is it?"

Daryl pulled out a tiny green book. "She dropped it when she got kidnapped."

Carol plucked the journal out of his hand and flipped through the pages. The entries began several months prior to the outbreak; started out sweet, eager, but ended dark and worrisome, filled with hopes that the author seemed to be holding onto merely for the sake of it.

"Have you read these?"

"Nah."

"She wrote about you. A lot."

Daryl grunted.

"Says here she felt like a burden to you."

He sat next to Carol and took the journal back, slipped it into the deepest pocket of his pants, and polished off the remainder of his water with one tilt of the bottle.

"She won't."


	5. Fools

It has been a millennium since recorded music had been heard by these ears. I've grown used to the idea that from here on out it would be just me and my voice, my clapping hands and stomping feet, if I wanted a tune to carry on to.

During these certain special occasions in Alexandria, the storage containers of beer and wine, rare foods, and of course, old turntables, are pulled out. Only once before had the records been yanked from the storage in Deanna's basement, or so I have been told. There hasn't been a reason to celebrate anything for a while; now, that we haven't had an incident in well over two months, we are allowed to get tipsy and forget the snarling undead beyond our cocoon.

Maggie, a good five months pregnant, stays home with Judith and invites several other little ones over to play games and drink hot chocolate. Glenn is reluctant to leave her side—as he had been since the day they found out her pregnancy—but with a bit of coaxing from Michonne, he gives in and follows our group up the way to what had been dubbed the Rectangle. Our town square is too long to be an actual square, and so the ingenious teenagers around these parts began to off-handedly refer to it as the Rectangle. Now, it's where every town meeting is held, where every community-wide decision is made, and every celebration, celebrated.

I hang back in the group, searching for Daryl. Gatherings have never been his thing. Carl and Enid link hands and jog ahead, joining the party. Music swells, retro and gorgeous, bluesy and hopeful all in one.

"I'm sure he's coming," Glenn says, pulling me out of my haze. He knocks elbows with me. Plays the big-bro card. "He said he'd try, didn't he?"

I smile in return. "Yeah." _But he's disregarded his promises about these things before._

After several bouts of spiked fruit punch and an enormous amount of Carol's cookies, Glenn takes me for a spin on the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the Rectangle. I throw my head back and laugh, catching sight of Michonne in Rick's arms, of Carl dipping Enid, and, as the spins slowed into small steps and then into nothing, I see him.

He stood warily at the fray of the crowd. Setting my sights on him, I leave my brother-in-law behind and tear off in Daryl's direction, crying out his name and jumping on him like the tipsy idiot I am.

"You came!" He smells like soap, yet the layer of pine and dirt rises from beneath the cleanliness just as it always has. I grab his hands, smiling deliriously. "C'mon, let's dance. You've missed half the evenin'."

His expression says _no,_ but his feet say _yes._ Following behind me, friends and family clap his shoulder as we pass until we're in the thicket of it all. The voices, the laughter, the warmth and ferocity for life. I turn swiftly on my heel as another song starts. An old song—one I'd heard but never listened as close to as I am now.

 _"_ _Must've been through about a million girls,_

 _I'd love 'em and I'd leave 'em alone,_

 _I didn't care how much they cried, no, sir._

 _Their tears left me cold as a stone."_

My arms curl around his neck, our torsos matching from chest to belt. His hands seize my waist and we sway, awkwardly but sweetly.

 _"_ _But then I fooled around and fell in love,_

 _I fooled around and fell in love,_

 _I fooled around and fell, in love,_

 _Fooled around and fell in love."_

"How was your day?" I whisper into his collar. The heat of his skin is inviting, comforting, pulling me in like a beacon. We have never crossed any lines with each other, knowing that rushing isn't what neither wants. But there are times where all I want is to explore him.

"Good, I guess."

I will never stop savoring how his voice rumbles through his body, how it is to _feel_ each word leave his mouth. Nuzzling into him, I say, "Don't let me go till this song is over, okay?"

His head knocks and settles against mine. We meld into one, where there is no end, no beginning, just the middle, of us.

"Won't even let go of you then," he promises.

And he keeps that promise.


	6. Ella Ann

It happens. A while after they get to Alexandria, but not as long as everyone betted they would last. She tells him _it's okay, I'm ready, I want this._ But he's terrified. All he can see when he looks at her, with that slowly blossoming belly, is Lori Grimes. Lori Grimes, minutes before childbirth, running for her life from the invading undead. Lori Grimes, who never got to hold her daughter.

And Rick, who's downward mental spiral was really set into motion by the loss of his wife.

 _I'll be fine,_ is what Beth tells him over and over as the days pass, weeks pass, and her belly grows into a round bouncing thing of life and happiness for all around. No one's had or seen a baby in what feels like ages. Judith is nearly two years old now. She's walking, talking, practically a full-on kid.

They talk about names and it drives him crazy, asking him what he would like. He never believed he would experience this part, the waiting months before becoming a father. He never thought he would _be_ a father.

So when Beth goes into labor, her face redder than a tomato and breathing shallow and quick, he freezes. If he loses her, if he loses his Beth, he'll die. He knows he will. _I ain't like Rick,_ he says, he screams. _I can't carry on without you._

 _You won't have to._

Ella Ann Dixon is born just hours before dawn in the heat of summer. Her hair is dark and thick, her fingers long and pretty, as well as her eyelashes. They name her after Daryl's mom and Beth's best friend in high school. _Mary Ella would've demanded to be the godmother,_ Beth laughs.

He doesn't want to hold Ella Ann at first. _I'll break her,_ he wants to say. But Maggie forces him to sit, arranges his arms right, and plops that tiny thing in the raggedy blanket in his arms and steps back. Beth is asleep, exhausted from the eight hours of fracturing contractions and pushing.

He's dazed by this little human being, so new, so naive and innocent. Suddenly he's vowing that this child will never see what it's like outside their walls. Her bright blue eyes, so like his own and her mother's, will never witness a loved one get ripped apart by a walker's teeth, or bitten and turned. She will never have to kill a friend because there's no way of saving them. Ella Ann Dixon will be protected at all costs. She will be normal, and she will be loved.

But as he's making these silent promises, he stops. Her little hand is grasping at the air, reaching outside of the cocoon of her father's arms. He leans in closer, murmuring to her, and her fingers latch onto the scruff on his chin. Everyone giggles, and reality pops him back into existence.

"I want her to have a good life," he says. _Where she ain't gotta suffer._ "A long life."

"She will." Beth's awake now, staring at him with the most joyous look she's ever bestowed upon him. Her hand wobbles as it reaches for her child. "And she'll be spoiled to pieces by her daddy."


	7. Bingo was His Name-O

The dog runs under the table at our feet, obviously content and calmed by our company. I scratch his matted ears, turning my cheek just in time before his tongue coats my face in slobber.

"So," I say as Daryl sits down and the dog's tongue stops attacking my face with tsunamis of slobber. "It's still your turn."

"My turn to what?"

"Speak. You were about to say something before you left."

There's a stretched moment of silence; then, instead of speaking, he reaches over, ensnares my hand in his, and props our cluster of fingers on his knee.

Warmth tickles my belly and fire trickles into my chest. There's no need in words here. Feelings go unspoken but received, and we munch away in ease until I decide to fill the quiet again.

"...so can I name him?"

"Then you're gonna wanna keep him."

"That's the point," I giggle.

He nods. "Fine."

I look at the mutt who hasn't stopped watching us with utter glee in the last five minutes. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was grinning.

"Okay, so, I was thinking Pirate. Because of the missing eye? What do you think?"

He glanced down at the mutt as well, who panted happily up at him in kind. No telling what horrors the poor pup saw out there on his own.

"Bingo."

"Bingo?" I laugh.

"Yeah. Had a stray once. Stuck 'round for a few days. Called him Bingo."

Something tangible, like sadness, rang behind his tone and I have to force myself not to pry at that scabbed memory.

"I like it. We'll call him Bingo. The one-eyed pirate dog."

Daryl snorts. Without releasing my hand, he grabs another pig's foot from the jar and tosses the treat to our new pet. Bingo hops up, paws settle on Daryl's chest, begging for another.

"He likes you," I say.

Daryl nearly smiles. "He makes one bit of trouble, and he's gone, ya hear?"

I scoot my chair closer to his and settle my head against Daryl's bicep. My hand joins his to stroke Bingo's head. I'm getting to him and I know it - because he's getting to me, too.

"Yes, Mr. Dixon."


	8. Beloved Mother, Wonderful Friend, Badass

(AU where Beth survives Grady, they all get out on the road, and after Tyreese's death but before Aaron finds them, Carol gets bit when she and Daryl are scouting the woods)

(AKA I'm sure to get hate for this. But seriously, guys, it's just an idea I had. I don't hate Carol at all! She's freakin' awesome! So sorry in advance if this offends you lol)

* * *

I helped bury Carol this morning.

Daryl tried his hardest to save her; she fought the fever, the walker that bit her, _everything_ so hard. But her body gave out, and so Rick was the first to break ground on her grave.

I wish we had a coffin for her. It would be a pale wood, with something dainty but poisonous carved into the top. Her tombstone would've read: _Carol Peletier. Beloved Mother, Wonderful Friend, Badass - a_ t least it would if I got to design it.

Gabriel insisted on saying a few words even though we knew Carol had given up on her faith a long time ago. No one spoke to me about singing, though as we took our turns dropping dirt in the hole, I started to hum. She'd told me back at the prison how she liked the song "Parting Glass" when I sung it. I could only hope she was able to hear me.

Daryl didn't approach the grave, didn't approach us. He came and went frequently over the following days as we traveled further away from Carol's last resting place and closer to Washington. He would swing by to drop off whatever kill he'd made, no matter how small. Michonne attempted to reach out only to get shut down. Rick tried, Carl tried, even Glenn.

Two full days had come and gone when he returned with a possum and four squirrels strung to his belt. Rick gave him a nod of thanks, of understanding, and Daryl turned to take off again.

 _You're not getting away this time._

I race ahead, reaching out to grab his arm before he can fully disappear into the woods—his sanctuary and his prison. He grunts, like an angered bull, as he turns to face me.

"What?"

I hope the fear isn't showing my eyes for it surely has made my heart falter.

"You can't keep runnin' off, Daryl," I say. "It's not gonna get better if you keep avoiding the fact that _it happened._ We lost Carol." I'm getting choked up and I can't stop. "She died. But you can't do this again. You can't just act like she never existed in the first place."

"Is that what I'm doin?" he challenges.

The group sways behind us, leaning to listen, then Rick whistles and they move along.

I nod. "And bottling it up inside ain't gonna help one bit. When I lost my mom, I slit my wrists . . . as you know." My tongue no longer goes dry when I say this aloud. I am still ashamed of my actions, but I've owned them. "I wanted to forget her. I wanted to forget Shawn. I wanted to roll over and die. But the minute I did that, I regretted it."

Daryl rips his arm from my grasp and growls, "I ain't gonna commit suicide, if that's what you think."

"That's _not_ what I think." I huff. "Haven't you been listenin'? You don't want to remember Carol. She was here. She was _apart_ of us. I've seen you do this before, Daryl. I was there and I'm not goin' to let you destroy yourself like this again."

"The hell you talkin' about?" But his voice goes thin, reedy, and he stares at me like I've skinned him alive. "Why don't you leave me alone? I ain't hurtin' nobody."

I let him go into the woods without a fight, holding onto the hope that he'll return in one piece at nightfall. He does, and so the cycle continues for another week. But the woods lose their plentiful bounty, the streams go dry in the never-ending August heat, and we sweat more water than we've taken in. Our strength and hope is near empty by the fourth day when we have yet to find another source of drink and food.

Then the fifth day it rains. It pours, dumps, soaks the earth back to life. Everyone is laughing, turning their faces up towards the sky, and the preacher is praising God. Even I send up a small prayer of thanks.

Daryl reappears from the woods then. Muddy, coated in walker blood, and a single, skinny animal on his belt. Unlike the last time we spoke, his eyes aren't guarded. They aren't even uneasy. He sees me and he moves purposefully in my direction. For a moment I can't differentiate the tears on his face from the rain; I open my arms either way and he walks straight into my embrace.

"Couldn't stop it."

His trembling echoes into my own body as I curl my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and vest. "No one could. It ain't your fault."

The rain quickly becomes a thunderstorm and he releases me only for me to grab his hand as we run for a barn he'd spotted on his many outings. Rick takes a few in to secure the place before we settle. An hour later, our clothes are dry but his hair is damp and smells like soil and earthen air against my chest as he sleeps, possibly for the first time since Carol's eyes closed.


	9. Rhiannon

Daryl loved before her. It was brief, fleeting, instantaneous and underway before he even realized what was happening.

But it was love.

There was another girl, a girl with honey hair and fire in her eyes - not quite the gentle blaze Beth's held often, but a forest fire, one that ran off every other man who valued himself. She was a bossy thing. All flared nostrils, raised eyebrows, loudmouth, swinging hips. It was before he was old enough to drink but legal age to smoke and put someone in office. Merle had just gotten back from war, and all the older Dixon brother had on his mind was booze, crystal, and women. Normally in that exact order.

Her name was Rhiannon. The premature lines late nights and hangovers had created around her bedroom eyes wouldn't have drawn Daryl in if not for the way she stopped Merle from getting both of them kicked out of their favorite hangout one night late. Merle was being his usual mouth-off asshole self, and the tavern owner had been _thisclose_ to calling the cops on the two Dixon boys. Which would've meant calling a favor with Merle's friends for bail. Which would've put them in even deeper shit.

"Don't worry about it, honey." Rhiannon'd smiled, popping a cinnamon gum bubble. "I've been saving your brother's ass for years. 'Fore he was even legal."

"Why?"

She'd shrugged. "Guess it's my way of 'being a samaritan'. 'Sides, he ain't so bad."

Daryl had snorted and kicked at the peanut shells scattered hazardously on the bar floor. His hair was near shaved, his eyes wide yet nowhere close to naiveté, a bit of stubble on his chin. The scars on his back were still rare and pink.

"You don't know Merle then."

"Well, he takes care of you, don't he?"

"Guess so." The bitterness on his tongue tasted like blood, like iron. 'Taking care' of his little brother meant Merle didn't beat him to a pulp and remembered to feed him every once in a while.

"Wouldn't let anything happen to you. That's what big brothers do." She squeezed Daryl's hand. Again, as if they were old friends. She turned to go towards the counter. "Want anything? My treat."

His eyebrows shot sky high. His shoulders tensed beneath the leather of his vest, and he near whispered, "A beer. Thanks."

Rhiannon smiled, almost smirked, her eyes lighting up as she reached out and punched his arm. "Loosen up, cutie pie. The fuzz ain't gonna drop in on us from copters and take ya to jail. You got in with a fake ID, right? You're all good."

He felt his shoulders loosen. Nodded. "Yeah."

"I'll be right back with that beer. On tap?"

All he could do was nod.

"You better not run off before I get back," Rhiannon threatened playfully. "We got some get-to-knowing-you to do."

In the present, he took in each movement Beth made, every twitch, every flutter of her fingers.

"Done!" Her head shot up and she held her project arise proudly. "I think I did pretty good for my first try."

Daryl snapped back into reality with the touch of rope on his fingertips. "Hmph. Not too shabby, girl."

Her eyes lit like a match, the green spit-firing into gold and blue. She fondled the knot of rope he'd taught her to do, still smiling, and said, "You okay? You look like you saw a ghost or somethin'."

 _I did,_ he thought. Rhiannon's smile faded into the back of his mind.

"Tired, is all."

"Loosen up," Beth prompted, nudging his knee with her own. "You have a moment to breathe. We're all good."

It echoed, word for word. Nodding, inhaling, shuddering—he took the rope from her and undid the knot to teach her another.

"Yeah. Yeah we are."


	10. Marigolds

(continuation of 'Shot through the Heart'. Expect more along this AU line :D )

* * *

Not a single soul asks about the two cuts on my face—other than Maggie who had checked and cleaned them—until Daryl did a day or two after our group started walking.

"Somebody scratched you up pretty nasty, huh?"

I nearly smile. Hearing his voice again, that tiny bit of teasing to his tone, warmed my belly like a fire. "Dawn did." I haven't thought about her much, mainly because when I do I only see her brain blow to bits by Daryl's glock. Feel that onslaught of guilt, wishing that it hadn't had to end like that.

"What for?"

"I guess I made her angry."

"So she beat the shit out of ya?"

And when I look to him, I can see scars. I can see the physical and invisible scars that have laid upon his body and mind for years, and always will.

But I also see familiarity, understanding. He knows the feeling of someone taking their ridiculous lick of anger out on you. Knows the feeling of being someone's mutt to kick.

"At least I'll have a story to tell with these scars," I say, squinting in the blazing sunset to see his expression. "I'll look tough too."

He snorts. "Naw. We'll get you some marigold or somethin', make sure you heal right."

"Maybe I want the scars." Rick is calling something out to us from up ahead. Our group veers off the beaten highway and towards the woods, where we'll take shelter for the evening. My boots hit the dewy grass with a squish; I want to shed my shoes and socks and walk barefoot to cool off my feet. "To remind me."

The way he speaks, it's as if he grabbed my arm and stopped me mid-gait.

"Naw. You don't."

* * *

Later that night, Daryl and I are some of the few still blinking around the fire. He'd come and gone most the evening, hunting and the like. But now he pulls out his bandanna and shows me a handful of golden flowers.

"What's that?"

"Marigold." He picks it up and tucks his bandanna back in his pocket. "I'll show ya how to use it and maybe your scars won't be so bad."

I smile. I smile so hard I can feel my stitches crack and split.

"What?"

"You," I say.

"What 'bout me?"

I don't have to think on my response. Not even for a nanosecond.

"Everything."


	11. We Made It

It took the night to cover the right amount of miles required to get away from the funeral home and the herd. By morning, we were stumbling and leaning on each other, and soon, dropped like flies.

Footsteps could be heard from yards away in the world's newfound silence. Yet a dozen men popped up out of the blew; circled us, raised their weapons, and had us snared in half a minute.

The sweat had dried enough on my palm that when I reached for my knife, my grip was firm. I tossed my head up and leveled eyes with a scruffy older guy whom beheld the pair of us like a prize.

"Well, well. Looky here."

Daryl was on his feet with his bow sighted on the man's head before I could even muster the energy to make my swollen ankle and weak knees rise. When I did, I pressed our backs together and pulled my blade, eyeing each man like a competitor. _Who will have to die so I can live?_ was the constant question it seemed.

"A good ole boy and his wench," someone out of my eyesight snarled.

"A bowman." The first man, their leader obviously, grinned. "Somethin' honest about a bowman. See, a man with a gun coulda been anything. But a bowman is a bowman through and through."

Daryl wasn't having the small talk. I could feel each twitch of his muscles through our touching spines.

"What's your name, son?"

Daryl didn't say a thing.

"I claim the vest," a gangly, scruffy figure announced to my right. He had a long bow, but his hands weren't as steady as the rest of the group. I mentally nicknamed him Twitchy. "And the girl." His eyes glinted with something I believed resembled hellfire. Inwardly, I flinched.

"Touch her and you lose that hat rack you call a brain." Animalistic, Daryl swung his bolt around to aim at the man who'd made the claim on me. "Look at her like that again and you lose an eye."

"Hey, hey, hey." The leader called back Daryl's attention. Daryl didn't budge, but kept his peripheral vision on the man. "No need to get nasty."

I curled my fingers around my knife handle. "We don't want any trouble. We were just passin' through."

The leader raised his eyebrows. "She speaks," he laughed. "Well, neither do we, darlin'."

"What do you want?" Daryl asked.

"Looks like you two have just about run yourselves ragged. How long you been alone on the road?"

"Two months," I answered first. Daryl shot me a look, which I ignored. "Almost two months."

"We're headed for a safe place, up the track a ways," the leader casually removed a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his vest and stuck it in his mouth. Didn't light it, though. "You could join us. We need all the numbers we could get, and we just lost a member the other night."

"What happened?" Again, the words were out before I could stop.

"Some bastard strangled Greg to death in the bathroom. Didn't even know he was in the house till he got away," another man replied.

"You after him?" Daryl said.

"Not at the moment," the leader said. "But if we find him, we'll take care of it. For now, I'm more worried about gettin' these people to safety. So, the welcome mat is rolled out if you and your girlfriend would like to join us."

It took a few minutes, and a lot of shared, anxious glances, before Daryl dropped his bow. They were a better option than being stuck out on the road alone with my ankle screwed to hell and our food supply gone. And I knew, due to the fiery tingling in my gut and the warmth in my cheeks, that Daryl wasn't only going to protect me out of obligation. He was protective _of_ me. He wouldn't let anyone or anything touch me. He knew I could handle myself, but if it came to the point where I couldn't, he would step in.

"Daryl," my companion said, nodding at the leader. He didn't shake hands. That would've been a sign of mutual trust, of acknowledgement of good character, and there was no such spark of that in my friend's tone towards that man.

The leader looked to me. He had yet to bother to light the cigarette. "And her name?"

Daryl smoothed his hand down my back and pulled me close. Protective. Practically possessive.

"None ya."

* * *

First night with the group and there was already so much tension not even a freshly sharpened machete could've sliced through it all.

I set our bedrolls the furthest away from the others. I helped string up cans, found water to boil, and got one of their two fires going. By the time I had eaten enough to satisfy the monster in my gut, my ankle was purple and blue and bigger than a boulder.

"You gotta rest that foot 'fore it falls off," Daryl muttered. He hunkered down next to me and gestured for me to hold out my leg. Nimble fingers probed the injury, his tongue caught between his teeth. "Hm. Walkin' all night and day didn't do nothin' to help it."

I rewrapped my ankle and slipped my boot on. "I'll be fine. How 'bout you? Are you okay?"

He knew my question was more than about his physical health. Dipping his head, he leaned in. "Not sure I trust 'em. But they've got a destination, a plan. Better than what we had."

 _Better than what we had._ This threw me back, took the breath I was inhaling from my lungs. It _stung_ like a son of a bitch. I didn't know why, for I had thought the same thing. But it was as if he wasn't talking just about our nonexistent supplies or plan, but our entire journey. I knew I was overthinking it. Knew I was exhausted, cranky as hell, and starving still. Somehow, someway, I kept my cool. No need in arguing tonight. We were safe, or as close as you can get surrounded by a dozen strangers and their very much often used weapons. These men were survivors, but so were we. We'd made it this long so we could make it to Terminus. I lie down on my side, using a spare shirt that I wadded up to prop my ankle, and watched Daryl from below.

"Once we get to this place, this Terminus, we're splitting off from them. Maggie could be there. If she saw these signs they're talking about, she would go. To find me. To find Glenn. Rick and Carl would go too."

He didn't seem to want to argue either. Easing onto his elbow, then to his shoulder, then his side, we lie face to face. I couldn't hold back the small, trembling gasp when his hand latched onto my waist and he wiggled us closer together.

Daryl closed his eyes and I stared. I wanted to trace each etch in his skin, each worry that has brought on this premature stress about his eyes and mouth. I wanted to smooth the hair from his forehead and plant kisses along his hairline. He opened his eyes and I froze.

"Alright," he said. "I got watch. You rest."

He released me from both his stare and his grip, rolled to his opposite side, and faced the campfires and our new travel buddies. As I slipped into sleep, I ran my fingers over the feathers in the wings on his vest, pondering over what it looked like when they were pristine white, wondering if there was a way to get them that way again. Yet I knew that, like its owner, there was no way to strip it of all the grit and years.

* * *

Daryl roused me early to hunt. He claimed he wanted to keep teaching me how to track so I didn't lose the skill before I'd even gained it, but I could see right through him—he didn't want to leave me with those men. And I was helluva grateful for that.

We tracked a rabbit for a while. He handed me his crossbow and let me lead as he had the other morning. When I needed a rest for my ankle, he forced me to sit. It took us nearly an hour to find the rabbit in the open, just waiting to be picked off for breakfast.

"Got your sights on him?"

"Yeah."

"Steady now." He placed his ever-steady hand over my shaky one. "It's just a bunny rabbit."

I let the bolt fly. An arrow whizzed past us, startling me. I jumped, collided with Daryl, lost my footing, and nearly collapsed. "Holy—" Daryl caught me under my arms and righted me. My breathing labored; the piercing throb back to my ankle and I knew I'd known postponed its healing another twenty-four hours at least.

"Hey!" Daryl growled at the scruffy man - Twitchy - who'd claimed me when we met. Apparently he'd been following us and we had yet to notice. "What the hell is your problem, man?"

"Nothing is." The man strode past us to the rabbit, motionless now, an arrow in its hip and a bolt it its neck, and grabbed it up.

I straightened the best I could. Holding my chin high, I declared, "That's ours."

Twitchy snorted. "No, it isn't, sweetheart. My arrow hit it first. I claimed it."

" _Claimed_?" I said. "What does that matter? We tracked it for nearly a mile. My bolt came first. It's _ours_."

Daryl's hand circled my wrist. "C'mon, man. Don't wanna fight you over a jackrabbit."

The man's sneer was palpable. I shrunk into Daryl's chest but kept my shoulders poised as the man walked over, stopped merely a foot away. "Don't have to. _I_ claimed it. Find you and your bitch somethin' else to eat."

"This _bitch_ isn't goin' anywhere to get anythin'." I hissed, grabbing for the rabbit. "I tracked and killed that rabbit."

Twitchy yanked when I did and the rabbit was so little and fragile the head ripped free from the body. Blood splattered the ground, the tips of my boots, bone hanging free from the rabbit's broken spine. My fragile gut rebuked and I breathed sharply to stop the rush of bile into my mouth.

"Dammit!" The man jerked forward, slinging his half of the animal like a weapon. "Stupid little bitch!"

"Hey!" Daryl jumped between us, his hand reaching for the knife at his hip, when a holler sent us all into a still.

The leader arrived with a thunk of boots and another yell. "What the hell is happening here?"

"I claimed that rabbit," Twitchy bellowed. "Now they're tryin' to say I didn't."

 _Goodness if you don't sound like a whiny child!_ "We tracked that rabbit for an hour," I defended. "Just as I was shootin', he shot too. My bolt hit the animal first."

"But did you claim it?"

"Claim it?" Daryl echoed.

"Yes." The leader's smile was more of a sly snarl. "Everything you hunt, kill, or find, must be claimed. That's the only way it's really yours."

"So I have to point and something and yell 'claim!' if I want it?" I asked, flabbergasted. The rabbit's blood had gone cold in my hands, leaving my palm and fingers sticky and disgusting. I just wanted this whole thing over with.

"Basically, yes."

Twitchy grinned fanatically, his yellow teeth no welcome sight. "Then I guess I'll be taking that then," he said, grabbing for my half.

"Now, now," the leader threw out an arm, stopping Twitchy before he could get near. Though Daryl had stayed the barrier between us the entire time anyway - and the grumble in the back of his throat scared Twitchy off more than the leader had. "They're new here. So we'll let this one slide. I believe the little girl about this. She can keep her half, and you can keep yours."

I wanted to stoop down to Twitchy's maturity level and laugh, give him the bird, taunt him endlessly. Instead, I smiled as sweetly, innocently, as I could and batted my eyes at the group leader.

"Thank you kindly."

* * *

We slept back to back that next night. The old car place the group discovered beside the tracks held little for us to scavenge, but the roof had yet to give and the metal walls held the heat of the fire somewhat well.

They beat that man, Twitchy, to death while we slept. Because he tried to hurt me, because he tried to make it look like Daryl stole the other half of the rabbit while we walked the day away. I had watched them drag Twitchy away, fists flying and kicks knocking him breathless, not knowing how far it would go. Daryl told me not to listen when the screams got too loud and the crunch of bones and the twisting of tendons filled the night. Covering my ears didn't help.

"He lied—they don't tolerate that," Daryl had mumbled as we got our packs ready.

"Rick didn't either," I'd retorted. "But he never made us beat someone to death over a lie."

Daryl helped me cover Twitchy's body with a tarp when we left the car shop. Guilt racked me, but I couldn't find the will to shed a tear for the horrible man. Yet, I wrapped my hand around Daryl's arm as we started on the tracks in the daylight and allowed myself the comfort of him. These men weren't good. If we slipped up, we would end up like the conniving man who'd attempted hurting Daryl and I.

It was almost noon when we stopped for water and when we started walking again, Daryl said something that surprised me. He'd been doing that a lot lately.

"Why don't you sing? Somethin' like you did the other night."

I couldn't stop the ridiculous, cheesy grin from curling my lips. "You won't mind?"

He shook his head. "'S too quiet out here."

I nodded, and began to sing a different song than at the funeral home; it started slow and grew into something upbeat and quick, full of heart and hope. And soon, his hand was holding mine and nothing could touch us. Nothing could hurt us.

We were gonna be okay.

We were gonna find Terminus. We were gonna find my sister and Carol and Michonne and Rick. They would be waiting on us, wondering why it took us so long to find this path to our family.

I finished singing and punctuated the ending, "They're at Terminus. All of them."

Daryl simply no longer wanted to argue or he believed it now, word for word.

"Hope you're right."

* * *

Michonne kept an arm stretched across the backseat, curled around me and Carl, till morning. I could feel each tremble through Carl and I's linked hands, the earthquakes of after shock still richoeting his thin body. He didn't talk about what happened. He nodded off sometime during the early dawn hours against Michonne's shoulder, and all was quiet except for Rick and Daryl's voices outside the truck.

"You and Beth got out together?"

"Yeah. Been on the run awhile."

"You protected her?"

He took in a slow breath. "We kept each other safe."

I wanted to cry. I wanted to hop out of the car and hug him breathless. Michonne looked at me with something like respect in her dark eyes. I'd missed her more than I thought I could.

"And those guys?"

"Didn't know they were like that. They had a code, that was enough. We were tryin' to get to Terminus. That's where they said they were headed."

"That's where we're going."

"It was more Beth's idea than mine."

Rick grunted. His body was battered, you could hear it in every breath. "You two being back here with us, now . . . . that's everything."

I knew Daryl well enough that he would nod at this, taking it in modestly, humbly.

"Daryl." Rick continued. "You're my brother."

The urge to cry was for Daryl now. I'd seen his yearning. For family, for friends, for affection. He would never voice it. He would never let anyone see it on purpose. I knew Daryl respected Rick because Rick was the first to treat him like something other than white trailer park trash and give him a worthy job, a responsibility to keep the weaker of us safe.

Carl's limp hand dropped out of mine when Daryl opened the door at noon and held out his own for me to steady myself on. My feet tumbled, my ankles wanting to tangle up, but again, Daryl caught me. Rick smiled as I rounded the front of the car, and though he was still covered in the leader's blood, I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him.

"I told you they were alive, Daryl," I snarked playfully when we break apart.

Rick laughed. "I'll get Michonne and Carl. We'll stop for water then we'll hit the tracks."

"Sounds like a plan," Daryl agreed.

Carl was still shaken when our boots touch railroad track, but his smile was steady and genuine. _I missed you,_ it said. There were so many things I wanted to ask him, Rick, and Michonne, but they'd have to wait until Terminus. Until we were safe.


	12. Believe in Me

He looks bruised, and he looks broken, shattered, his pieces and parts everywhere but together.

I touch him—it's just a graze, the skimming of my fingers over his forearms, up and up and up until his scruffy jaw and his bitten, crushed lips are at the tips of my thumbs, at my disposal. But I won't.

"You dead?" A question. Hesitant and breathy and all kinds of melancholy hopefulness.

"No," I say. "I'm not."

He exhales on a heady breath, "How?"

"I've told you how." I'm not impatient, only pushing, making him remember. "You know how."

His hands curl into my hair at the roots, pull me closer until his breathe caresses the skin of my cheek, the bat of my eyelashes.

"No way in hell you're real."

I snake my arms about his waist and cuddle into his chest. "No, but there's a way in heaven."

He latches onto me and refuses to let go until the sun rises and I'm still there, and he believes me, believes I'm alive and I'm real. That's how every day has begun for the two of us since my return. A month of lying next to him in the dark, being awakened by his mumblings and his fears, placating him till he cries out again. Daryl will never admit to these things in front of the others and I will never tell.

But it'll take him another month or two before he stops the need to touch me every five seconds.

(Though, that part I don't mind a bit).


	13. Nowhere Soon (ver 2 reunion)

(Hi all! Lemme kinda set the scene for ya here: Beth has found her way to Alexandria despite everyone's disbelief. That night, after dinner, they're all hanging out at the fire and Beth is telling her story and Daryl is having trouble dealing with the whole situation.

Thanks for reading! You're the bestest :)

XOXO,

OceansAria)

* * *

 **He wants to be happy.** He wants to _believe._ He wants to believe the story spilling from her mouth and the earnest glint to her eyes, and he wants to believe every single bit about this whole twisted situation—

 _He can't._

"Ain't no way."

The eager explanation screeches to a halt around him and every face of his group turns in his direction.

"Pardon?" Beth says.

 _Pardon?_ All syrupy sweet and puzzled. He scoffs, and it catches in his throat like a loogie.

"Ain't no way you lived through gettin' a slug to the brain," he says, gesturing to his own head. Anger fills his tone and he has no idea why he's getting more and more pissed by each breath. "I-I carried your body outta that hellhole. You won't _breathin_ '."

"I went into a coma," she explains, patient and kind and good and so _so_ irritating. Her eyebrows draw slightly together, perplexed as to why he's fussing at her. "Dr. Edwards said I was out nearly a month."

"Then how come there ain't more damage than that?" he points to her limp right arm, which refuses to budge nowadays except for a muscle spasm here and there. The damage to her brain had taken away the use of it.

Beth shrugs. All eyes still glued to the two, to their debate, she lowers her voices and says gently, "Because of the mercy of God."  
This throws him into a fit. And Daryl's fits aren't always yelling and pointing; sometimes there comes a silence and a fuming, dark burgundy anger that swells his chest and makes his eyesight go hazy. He ain't never believed in no God, ain't never prayed to Jesus—'cept for when he was getting whooped to pieces by his daddy's belt, and he cried out for the reprieve that never came.

He saunters away into the night, deeper into the suburban streets of Alexandria, far away from the light and hope that surrounds that bonfire. He's felt left out enough lately; getting those incredulous looks from his family had been the last straw. He could practically see the _What the hell is your problem?_ forming on Michonne's lips as he'd left.

"Hey, wait up!"

Of course she followed him. Of course Beth Greene wouldn't allow him _one freakin' second_ of peace.

The two of them haven't had a moment alone since she arrived. Maggie clung to her little sister like a bee to a rose, so this is the first time he can really get a look at Beth 2.0. She's wearing a pale pink shirt that's too big for her—obviously one of Maggie's—and even baggier jeans. But those same damn cowboy boots adorn her feet.

"What's your problem?" she exclaims in a burst of breath the minute she's close. "What's with all this stompin' off shit?"

A smirk sweeps his mouth without consciousness and he hates himself. She brings out the strangest emotions in him. Those blue peepers a'hers are wild and fiercely attentive to his; he wants to duck outta sight and hide.

"Did I upset you or somethin'?"

"Naw," he mumbles. _Why so shy all a'sudden?_ His brother's taunting voice echoes at the back of his mind. Up until her return hours earlier, Beth's had rung true and clear right alongside Merle's in Daryl's every thought. "Just—just tired a'sittin' 'round like the Brady Bunch catchin' up. Gonna go work on my bike."

"It sounded like you were accusing me of lyin' back there," Lord have mercy she's pissed. "Did you think I was lyin', Daryl?"

"Naw."

"Why can't you accept that I survived? That I'm here with y'all?" Grabbing his hand like they're back at that funeral home, pulling his fingers to touch her cheek. "That I'm back here with you."

He shakes off her hold. "'Cause there ain't no way you could've."

"But there is!" she barks an unlikely laugh. "I'm standin' _right here_. I'm real. I'm as real as you. I'm as real as Maggie, Glenn, or Rick. I made it, Daryl. I found y'all again and I couldn't be happier." Tears glistened at the corners of her eyes, just above the dark half moons that dragged down the bright color. "So why aren't you happy?"

 _Dammit, woman,_ he wants to say. _Damn you. I am happy. Downright peachy._

"'Cause," he says and his voice catches. "Because I already lost ya once, Beth. Now that I got ya back . . . only means I'll lose ya again."

He can see her breath pause, her heart pause, even her eyes stop blinking for a moment, and the tears literally stop flowing from the tear ducts of her moonlit cerulean stare.

She regains motion, slapping a hand over her gaping mouth. " _Oh_." Creeping closer, she takes that same hand, her only useful appendage, and touches his cheek, his scraggily hair. "Oh, sweetheart . . . " The endearment strikes his heart with something that tastes like fear. "I ain't gonna make you some bullshit promise about always bein' around. I know that ain't possible in this new world—hasn't ever been, really—but I _will_ promise that I will stay by your side till whatever end comes for me."

He grabs her hand again, and instead of pushing her away and rebuilding his walls, he pulls her closer and buries his face into her shoulder. She smells of vanilla and sunlight and hope. Wrapping his arms tight around her, he releases it all. Guilt. Fear. Trauma. All of the inner torment, all at once.

"Cried like a big ole' baby that day," he mumbles into her skin. Old Daryl would never have admitted such a thing. "And one more time after that." He swallows, catches the breath that's been taken. "Couldn't believe you were gone."

Beth puts a few inches of space between them so she can see his face again. He touches her cheek, her forehead, where those thin white scars will reign for the remainder of her life. Somehow they make her more beautiful than he thought possible. She looks like a warrior now. A sister in arms.

"I'm here," she says. Sniffling, smiling. "Ain't goin' nowhere anytime soon."


	14. Thought it was You

(Daryl's minding his own business in Alexandria when..)

* * *

A flash of blond hair passed the open garage door and he went running.

"Hey!" His voice hadn't been heard but briefly from the residents of Alexandria, and never so loud. A few of the population turned in concern to watch his pursuit. "Hey, you! Girl!"

The girl in question swung around to face him in the dead middle of the street. Her blond ponytail, fair and light, trailing from side to side with her lilting gait, fell still.

Daryl skidded to a stop.

The girl's eyes were brown. Her nose was wide, her chin strong and sharp, her cheeks round. Twiggy thin and tall, not at all lithe and slender. But her hair was white blond. _In a ponytail._

"I-I'm sorry," he stammered, backing away as if he'd been electrocuted by the girl's annoyed glare. Brown eyes. Dead leaves in autumn. Not blue, not the sky, not the sea. _Brown_. "Thought you were someone else."

The annoyance faded and the girl smiled somewhat. Her left canine was missing. "Oh. It's okay." With that, she walked away.

Onlookers returned to their business. Daryl stayed put, chest heaving with much more than exasperation. Sprinting into the nearest alley, his back slid down against the brick wall until he was hunched like a gargoyle on a cathedral's turret.

"Saw that girl and thought it was you," he whispered to the opposite wall. To a person long gone. Imaginary these days.

When he was done crying—which he would never admit to anyone—Daryl quickly exited the alley and returned to the garage to work on his bike.

It was the only thing keeping him sane.


	15. Greenery

(Scene: Beth and Daryl are out hunting in the woods when suddenly..)

* * *

"Can I ask you something?"

Not at all polite or earnest. It's more _Let me tell you something_ than a question.

"Sure."

She stops. Turns. Screws her jaw shut and gnaws on her lower lip. Jiggling his crossbow in her grip. Anxious, but stewing. She's pissed as hell at him and he has no idea why.

"What do you want from this?" she hisses finally, gesturing between their two bodies. "Hmm? Please tell me. Because I can't figure out where this is goin'."

 _This_. _Us_. Oh sweet baby Jesus. Relationship shit isn't his thing.

She huffs and shakes her head when he ponders too long on his response.

"Wait," he says. Rubbing the back of his neck, playing with the bristle on his chin. Shuffles his feet. "I—I don't know." Because he doesn't. He's not sure what he wants besides a full belly and a safe place to sleep for the night most days.

Beth huffs again. Narrowing her eyes, she lowers her tone to a menacing endearment.

"Well _I_ know." A sigh. A tremble. "I want _you_ , Daryl."

He freezes in his place; even the sweat stops rolling down his back.

"I know you care about me, Daryl," she goes on. The anger is gone. "I know you like me. But do you love me?"

He stumbles through several stammers. Words wouldn't work for him.

Then he touches her shoulder, that bare, pretty shoulder, and kisses her forehead.

"More than ya know."


	16. Yellow Racing Stripes

_(Scene: Beth's birthday came, and for the first time in years, she celebrated. They all did._

 _Carol and Maggie made a cake, Michonne tried to decorate, and Carl scavenged up presents that the group could give her. Books, empty journals—Rick even found a piano in one of the many vacancies of Alexandria and with Glenn's help, moved it up to Beth's room._

 _At the end of the day, with their bellies full of cake and stale soda, Daryl got her attention...)_

* * *

"C'mon," he says, nudging my elbow with his.

I get up and follow him, bidding everyone else goodnight with a wave. We walk in silence to the house, then around back to the garage that is basically Daryl's very own abode. A small cot is strung up in the corner between two different toolboxes, books and folded clothes set neatly on a shelf above.

"Nice place," I comment with a smile.

He smirks, mumbling, "Thanks."

That's when I actually focus on the big item in the room. Next to Daryl's bike, which is under constant repair and tune-up, is some _thing_ covered by a tarp.

I frown, pointing at the covered piece."What's that?"

"Your present." He walks over to the tarp and yanks it off in a flourish.

It's a motorcycle—much like his own, just smaller, more compact. And there's yellow stripes down the tank. I recall weeks before when he'd stopped me one afternoon at random to ask: _What's your favorite color?_

 _Yellow,_ I'd said.

"You . . ." Breathless, non-believing. I feel my heart stutter and race, my lips carefully forming: "You built me a bike?"

A nod. Bashful. Gosh, even after all this time, he's kinda afraid of _feeling_. Of _me_.

"I can go out there with you?" For months I've begged him to take me on a scouting mission. I'm bored out of my mind behind these placid walls, tasked with easy chores. I'm ready for action. For ass-whooping adventure.

He grins then. Daryl's grin is a rare, adorable thing that makes my insides wriggle. Stepping closer to me, he replies, "Every day if ya wanna."

"I _do_ want to," I breathe. I grab his hand, if only to anchor myself. Because I'm floating I'm so damn excited. I swear I'm freakin' _levitating_. "Daryl, this is the best present I've ever gotten."

He snorts. "Naw."

"Yes!" I insist, pulling him to me. So he has to look at me, so he has to read the sincerity in my eyes. "Yes, it _is._ Because the real gift is gettin' to be with you."

Even a man his age and abilities can blush like a little girl. He ducks his head so his hair clouds his face, but I release his hand to push that hair back, forcing him to see me.

"You're so doggone mushy sometimes," he mutters. Teasing, because that's what he does when he's annoyed or nervous - the latter here. "Just built it so you'd stop complainin' 'bout washin' clothes and stuff."

I laugh and stretch on tiptoe to kiss the tip of his nose. He blinks.

"You're too good to me, you know that?"

Just as the first time I said this to him, he replies, "Naw."

I throw my arms around his neck and protest, "Yes, you are, you silly old redneck."

He screws shut his mouth; he knows there's no use in arguing. Hesitant hands touch my back, keeping me close, and a thrill goes through my body from head to toe.

So I give him _my_ present—a kiss.

It's our first.

And it's not perfect, not by any means. It's sloppy, and he tastes like vanilla frosting and whiskey and cigarettes, and it takes a few moments before we can get into a groove but we _do_.

Nothing separates us till Sasha comes around to remind us about curfew.

Even then, I steal another kiss before disappearing, my fingers trailing over the body of my new motorcycle as I leave.

Tomorrow is a new adventure.


	17. Ghost

"I really am real, y'know."

Why's she following him? _Dammit!_ He just wanted to be alone with his bike and his tools and forget everything and every freakin' _one_ for a minute.

"I know," he says, but doesn't believe his own tongue.

She saunters over, drops in a crouch, and grabs his chin, turning his face to hers. Her eyes brimming with unshed tears, glistening against her eyes like stars in a waterfall pool. But her voice hits him steady and calm.

"Then why do you keep lookin' at me like I'm a ghost?"

He doesn't miss a beat but his heart does.

"'Cause you are one."

Taken aback, Beth frowns. She grips his hands in her own—his dirty, greasy, callused hands—and presses his fingertips to the scars on her cheek, on her forehead, where Dawn's palm and gun has done a permanent number on her pretty face.

"See these?" she whispers. "Feel 'em? They're my _scars_ , Daryl. They're proof I survived." She's crying now. "I'm _real._ Can't you accept that?"

He shakes his head, his breathing heavier than an anvil with each pull. "I want to, though," he mumbles.

He does want to accept it. He wants to touch her and know that she isn't a hallucination, that she isn't a dream. Because he's had those dreams a million times since he left Grady Memorial Hospital in his dust and he every time he wakes up sick to his stomach.

She laughs through her tears. Pressing her cheek into his hand, which sculpts around the shape of her skin, he wishes silently to himself that this isn't one of those dreams.


	18. Jeopardy

_Daryl and Noah are with Rick and the others about to activate their plan on Grady Memorial.._

* * *

"She saved me."

Daryl cocks an eyebrow at the boy who'd spoken as he finishes pulling the crossbow's string into place. "So you said."

"Didn't tell you the whole story." Noah shakes his head. "We tried to get out together."

"Yeah."

"And I can't run, really, y'know? So Beth cleared a path for me through the rotters. Shooting and kicking. Even stomped one's head in. Never saw that before."

Daryl smirks a little. "Tough as steel," he comments—more to himself than Noah.

"I got out. Obviously," Noah continues. "And when I . . . when I looked back, Leonard and Michaels had her on the ground, handcuffing her wrists. But the weird thing was, she . . . she was _smiling_."

"Smilin', huh?"

Noah chuckles, "Yeah. Like she'd just won _Jeopardy_ or something."

"Yeah, well," Daryl hops to his feet and offers Noah a hand-up. He slings his crossbow over his shoulder, catches the nod from Rick to move out. They'll be at Grady Memorial soon enough. It's almost go time. "That's Beth Greene for ya."


	19. Really Now?

"Did you ever like, _like-like_ Carol?"

I love catching him off guard. It's adorable in the weirdest way—his eyebrows scrunch tightly together and he bites his lower lip till I can see the indentions his teeth make in his skin. Every inch of his squirms as if there are invisible ants his pants and he can't get away.

"Yeah," he sighs finally.

 _Yeah._ My stomach twists, and I realize just before I speak that it's because of jealousy. Stupid, right?

"Why didn't you ever . . . " I lean forward, lowering my voice. As if anyone is around to hear us. "You know, make a move?"

"'Cause," he snorts. He hands me another piece of scorched rabbit meat and starts in on his second helping. "She was too much like a sister to be my girl. We were too much alike." Scraping off bits of fat from the stick he'd fried the food on, he licked it off the knife and adds, "'Sides, I met someone."

 _Is it possible for the his eyes to feel so warm on my face? Or is that just the fire heating up my skin?_

"Oh, really now?"

He smiles, ducking his head so it's nearly out of sight. "Yeah. She's a pain in my ass, but she's worth it."


	20. Never Free of Her Blood

**Days passed and only his sweat had attempted to wash her blood from his skin.**

Rick cleansed himself of it as soon as he could get ahold of a rag and some water, but not Daryl. He hadn't slept, nor had he eaten. Everything he forced into his piehole stuck in his throat and made him gag. Sleep brought on images of puddles of scarlet and the notes of ghostly singing.

"Hey."

He was supposed to be scouting for food, for water—he had found. But once he'd sat down next to the creek, he couldn't find a will to move an inch. _To hell with it,_ he thought. _Done with it all. The world, walkers, everything. I'm done._

"Looks like you found water."

Carol left him alone for the first day or so after Atlanta, but now it looked like she was wiggling her way into his business. Plopping into the damp dirt next to him, she rested her rifle across her knees, not even bothering to take the dry-as-desert bottle from her hip to fill it with cool relief from the stream.

"Can I see your bandanna?"

With a bit of a shrug, he pulled the rag from his back pocket and handed it over—remembering when Beth had taken the same one and filled it with wild grapes while they were searching for their lost people. _They'll be hungry when we find them._ When, not if. Never _if_ with Beth.

Damn, the girl had been so full of hope.

 _Yeah, and look where hope got her,_ his demons whispered.

Carol scooted closer to the creekbed, dipped in the bandanna, and turned back to Daryl. "C'mere," she said, closing in on his face.

He jerked back. "What're you doin'?" He didn't have much fight in him; he wasn't in the mood to be manhandled.

"Cleaning your face," Carol replied. Loving, calming. "You're a mess." The damp cloth touched above his lip, where the biggest spot of dried blood reigned.

" _Stop_." Daryl scrambled to his feet, feeling his chest start to heave and his heart rattle, and grabbed his things. His water bottle. His weapon. Even his bandanna—snatched it right from Carol's gentle hands. "I'm fine. Don't need ya motherin' me."

Carol's eyebrows pulled together. "I'm not trying to mother you."

"What do ya care what I look like?" he hissed, ignoring her. "Been dirtier than this 'fore and you didn't give a shit."

"Do you think Maggie likes looking at you and seeing her sister's blood on you?" Pulling herself up, Carol tossed her rifle's strap over her back and softly answered his question, " _Because_ , if you allow yourself to sink into this trap of self-pity, you won't ever crawl back out. At least not the same. I know. I almost went there."

He could tell she did not pity him; he knew Carol. He knew she wouldn't ever pity him.

"Already ain't the same," he mumbled.

"Yeah," She touched his arm, squeezed slightly, got him to put the cloth to his face. "Wash up, okay? You'll feel a little better."

He didn't catch the tears in her eyes, but he could feel some in his own and a lump beginning in his throat.

"I'll wait for you to finish."

With that, Carol moved deeper into the trees to give him privacy and peace.

He waited till he was alone before he waded into the shallow creek. The water felt like pure bliss. Splashing his arms, his face, his chest and neck, he scrubbed slowly, watching as the water turned shades of brown and rusty red around him.

When he and Carol returned to the group nearly an hour later, he fell into step with Maggie—who had spoken and done even less than he had since they left the hospital, Atlanta, and Beth in their dust.

"Hey," he bumped Maggie's arm, grabbing for her attention. There was still blood encrusted in her fingernails, "C'mere."

He dumped a bit of their precious water on his still damp bandanna and stopped her in her tracks to clean her hands. She was limp and weak to his touch, and when he was finished cleaning her hands, she didn't say a word but nodded and continued on.

"Feel better?" Carol asked when he was in range.

Daryl's eyes held naught but barely-contained fury. He surged forward, wanting to put a distance between him and everyone. He could feel their eyes like a chain-and-ball tied to his ankles, their pitying gazes and wondering stares, with the constant itching inquiry: _Are you okay? Are you sure that you're okay?_

"No," he answered, putting an end-all to Carol's questions and all of their questions.

He would never feel better.

He would never be okay.


	21. Ann Marie Dixon

**I always wondered what else these two darlings talked about while they were drunk...and I always wanted to write about Daryl telling Beth about his mom.**

 **One thing I noticed while watching the TWD Season 3 marathon was that when Daryl told Carl about his mom's death, he said almost the exact same thing as when he lost Beth: "She was just gone."**

 **Anyway...thanks for reading! :)**

 **XOXO,**

 **OceansAria :)**

* * *

Daryl told Beth the story he once told Carl about his mom. Then, when they got high on moonlight and moonshine, he spilled even more about his childhood—about Merle, his dad, and his mom.

Her name had been Ann Marie Dixon.

"I remember," he drawled from across the porch. "When I was little, people always tellin' me how she'd been this beauty queen all throughout school. Won a coupla' local pageants, got homecoming queen, prom queen . . ."

"Wow."

"Yeah. See," he snorted a chuckle. "I couldn't believe all that 'cause with all the drinkin' and smokin' and partyin' she did . . . she didn't look so pretty no more."

Beth laughed along with him. "Daryl! That's so mean."

"What's it matter? She's dead."

They both sobered then, just long enough for the moonshine jar to be passed back and forth several times and for swallows to be taken.

"Anyway, 'fore she started sittin' in the bed all the damn time, she used to take me with her everywhere all over God's green earth," he went on. "To Walmart, to her friend Jeanne's house, even to the bar sometimes. She'd set me beside her on a barstool and the owner didn't mind. But I liked goin' to Jeanne's house. She was a lot older than my mom . . . kinda like a grandma t'me and Merle. They'd sit 'round, play poker and smoke, make me watch TV or play with one of her ugly little chihuahuas."

Beth just smiled; listening to Daryl's stories were like the days when her daddy would take her into the field to work, or to ride horses, and he would tell her all sorts of tales of the 'good ole days'. Hearing about his mom made her miss _her_ mom—but it was worth it.

"Everyone said I was like a little dog myself, bein' yanked 'round on a leash."

"No, that's not true," Beth assured him. "My mom used to say I was her little sidekick. Took me wherever she went, too."

Daryl gave her a tiny smile. "She won't a bad mom. Just won't the best, either. After my dad started really . . . y'know," he adverted his eyes. "One bad time he really messed her up and that's what got her laid up. She didn't do much besides stay drunk or high after that."

"How old were you?"

"Dunno . . . eight? Ten?"

"God," Beth sipped her booze. "That sucks."

"Yeah."

"Was . . . was your dad torn up when she died?"

"He won't home. Off workin' some dead end, deadbeat job t' make ends meet. Jeanne took me to the hospital—though there won't hardly no body left—and she did all the legal shit that needed t'be done. My dad's sorry ass didn't show up till the next mornin'. He'd been off with his pals all night. I slept over at Jeanne's. He came to get me but she wouldn't let him take me . . . he was shit-faced drunk and angrier than a bat outta hell."

"What happened then?"

"Jeanne tried to get rights t' bein' my guardian, but my dad . . . he raised cain . . . wouldn't let me go. Still, she took care o'me often. Always took me back to her house after school, made me eat somethin' 'fore I went home."

Beth had a feeling she knew where the story was headed.

"Jeanne died when I was thirteen. Merle came home from juvie then went out on his own. Dad . . . got worse."

She winced at the thought of what he'd been through, of all the pain his childhood had held, all the joy that had been stolen from him. Biting her lip, she kicked her boot against his and shot him a smile when he looked at her through the hair in his eyes.

"Wanna hear about the most embarrassing night of Maggie's life?"

Daryl shrugged, took a deep chug of moonshine and wiped his mouth on his arm.

"Sure."

Beth sat up and forced another smile, a livelier one. _Time to lighten the mood._

"Okay, so, it was her senior prom and Shawn decided to pull a little prank and put monkey glue in her nail polish . . ."

Changing the subject was worth it—especially if it meant getting to see Daryl smile.


	22. Sing Sweet Knighting Gale

The first time they shared a bed it wasn't even remotely romantic.

They'd found a house, an ancient, crumbling place, with a king sized bed and thick quilts in its single bedroom. It was the eve of the first frost, and there was no point in denying that to survive the night, they would need each other's body heat.

"Um," Beth hesitated at the edge, her body stripped of weapons and her feet free of her boots for the first time in months. Her knife and gun were lined up perfectly on the bedside table next to her half-empty water bottle. "You can go first."

Daryl's eyebrows went so high they almost disappeared into his hairline. He bit at his thumbnail and shrugged.

"Naw, you first."

"Uh, okay."

She pulled back the dusty covers and sluggishly, awkwardly, and uneasily climbed in. Little dust motes puffed up around her as she slipped her legs beneath the sheets and scooted down till her head was mere centimeters from the pillow.

"Alright, your turn."

Daryl took every inch of the bed into count and then shook his head.

"Naw, this is silly. Look, I'll take these," he grabbed two extra quilts folded on the trunk at the end of the wrought iron bedframe. "Sleep on the floor."

" _No_. Daryl, please." Beth patted the space next to her that would otherwise remain chilly without him. She ignored the way her heart fluttered when he looked at her cocooned in the bed. "We already talked about this. You'll freeze."

With a sigh, he dropped the quilts, shed his boots and his crossbow and his knife, and gave the bed a final once-over. Like it was a mountain he had to climb, or a rushing river he was supposed to cross.

"You comin' in or what?" Beth teased, though her cheeks were warming up her entire body at this point. She was about to share a bed with a _man._ The only guy she'd ever shared a bed with was her older brother Shawn when they were youngins.

Daryl shot her an annoyed glare. "What's the rush, Greene?"

Her ears flamed and she stammered, "I'm kinda exhausted over here. We ain't got much time till first light and—"

He turned and flopped back on the bed, making the whole mattress bounce and nearly sending Beth off flying.

" _Daryl_!"

"What? Got tired of hearin' your yappin'," he muttered, crossing his arms behind his head and wiggling to get comfortable.

Her 'yap' shut with a _pop!_ She shimmied deeper under the covers until the sheets tickled her chin, her fingers curling around the quilt's edge. "Oh. Um, I'm sorry."

"'S fine." Daryl jostled the mattress a little more, grunting as he yanked the forgotten pistol from the back of his jeans. "Guess that's the last one." He dropped it next to his knife on his own nightstand and finally settled against his pillow.

"Think we'll actually get some real sleep?"

"Dunno. Have t' see."

"Do you want me to take watch?"

"Naw. Place is locked up tight. Anything starts bangin' at that door, we'll know pretty quick."

Beth nodded. She turned her cheek into her pillowcase and peeked at him from the corner of her eye. He was chewing at his nail again, gaze trained on the ceiling, lost in his thoughts.

"I don't know if I _can_ sleep."

Daryl blew a short chuckle. "Least gotta try. Maybe you should sing or somethin', if it'll help."

"Sure it won't bother you?"

"'M sure."

Beth cleared her throat and shifted to her side, facing Daryl, and her body lost some of its ever-alert tension as she started to sing the first few lines of an old Disney tune.

"Sing sweet knighting gale . . ."

"Disney? Really?"

"You know Cinderella?"

Daryl shrugged. He crossed his arms over his chest and gave a big sigh. His hair was fanned across the pillow like a dark halo around his head. She was tempted to braid it.

"Had a friend when I was a kid—Anna. She made me watch it with her coupla times."

"Aww," Beth teased, giggling. "How sweet."

"Shuddup," Daryl grumbled. He kept squirming, as though he just couldn't get completely comfortable. "Go on. Keep singin'. Maybe it'll help us both get some shut eye."

Hesitant at first, her sweet voice was soon rocking the two of them into unconsciousness. Soon, Beth inched closer and Daryl didn't flinch when she threaded her fingers through his and pulled their intertwined hands to rest by her nose. Soon, he stopped wriggling because he was finally comfortable.

"You warm enough?" he whispered when her singing dropped off and her breathing was starting to even out.

Beth smiled sleepily up at him. "Yeah. You?"

"Yeah. Night, Greene."

"Goodnight, Mr. Dixon."


	23. Inevitable Fragility

Daryl sat there as an entire millennium stretched out and he held her.

His broken girl.

A shattered china doll was all she could be now. Goose feathers leaked from under her flesh and shards of her head everywhere but together.

His beautiful, inevitably fragile girl.

She had been so strong.

* * *

The first time his eyes closed and he slept after she left his world he dreamed of her.

 _"_ _I'm just glad I knew him, you know?"_

Naive and sweet and glowing. Angelic even before death swallowed her up. She held him in her lithe arms and pieced him into place where he was broken just a little bit the first time they embraced.

 _"_ _I'm glad I didn't say goodbye, Daryl. I hate goodbyes."_

 _"_ _Me too."_

His dream quickly changed scenes and there he was, his arms full of shattered china doll and his heart the weight of an anvil.

 _"_ _You hate goodbyes,"_ _he'd whispered. Touching her face, her hair, that braid in her ponytail. Giving in to all the urges he'd had before and had been too much of a coward to commit to. "Won't say it then."_

With a sharp breath, he awoke.

"Whoa," Carol whispered from his side. They had been on watch together and he'd nodded off. "Hey there. You okay?"

"Fine," grunted Daryl.

He sat up, shook himself from head to toe, and grabbed his crossbow. Carol mumbled something about taking a nap and lay down, her back to him and rifle in hand. Walkers and other creatures of the night growled and grumbled around the two of them and he tried to force his brain to _wake up._

Daryl's body may have been at the ready, but his mind was still carrying a dead girl in an embrace and trying to hold back a goodbye.

* * *

She came to him two more nights following the first in forms of memories and daydreams.

Moonshine and darkness on a sloping front porch. A burning redneck shack left in their wake as they burned a trail through the night.

Then came the not-so-real.

His mind teased him with images of Beth in a yellow sundress and cowboy boots, sunshine smile in place and blue eyes alight. They were back at Hershel's farm—all of them were. Even the dead ones.

Lori and Andrea were helping Patricia set up a table full of food in the dining room. Carl and Sophia played with Judith on the carpet in the next room over; Shane and Dale and Rick were in a heated conversation in the front hall. Maggie and Glenn were sneaking kisses in the kitchen, and T-Dog was helping Carol fill the tea glasses. The newer faces appeared soon after: Tyreese, Sasha, Rosita, Abraham, Eugene, Bob, Noah. The line went on and on until Daryl felt claustrophobic.

The last to enter the dining room was Merle.

 _"_ _Whatcha doin' standin' over there with ya piehole gapin', little brother?"_

Beth came to his rescue. Her hair was down for once, but that telltale braid hung over her shoulder, starting by her ear.

 _"_ _Leave him alone, Merle,"_ she teased back, slipping an arm around Daryl's waist. _"It smells wonderful, y'all,"_ she called to the ladies.

Lori glanced up and smiled. _"Thanks. But that venison was a pain to try to season. I just hope it tastes alright. All we had was pepper and paprika."_

 _"_ _Yeah, thanks for the deer, Daryl!"_ echoed Sophia, trotting up to the table with Carl and Judith in tow. Her doll was tucked into her elbow and her hair was nearly past her shoulders.

 _"_ _Um . . . you're welcome."_

She looked different, and he realized why. Older. As old as she was supposed to be if she was still alive.

 _"_ _He wasn't the only one that brought home grub,"_ crowed Merle, tucking a napkin into his shirt collar as he settled at the table.

Everyone was taking their seats; Beth dragged Daryl towards the table and they sat down in unison, side by side. The table, though it looked like it could only fit about eight people, seemed to expand and expand, growing bigger to accommodate the amount of guests.

 _"_ _Oh, hush,"_ Carol huffed in the older Dixon brother's direction. _"You brought home three rabbits. What's that to Daryl's deer?"_

 _"_ _Well, I say we all stop talking about the deer and start_ eating _it,"_ Hershel cut in. Sitting at the head of the table where he should be.

A collective laugh resounded from the guests and soon the gibber-gabber flowed into something more peaceful. Dishes were passed back and forth and conversations circled around the coming winter and fortifying of the farm's fences.

A small hand prodded his arm in the midst of it all.

 _"_ _Daryl."_

 _"_ _What?"_

 _"_ _You haven't eaten anything,"_ Beth giggled, tapping his empty plate with her fork. _"Aren't you hungry?"_

 _"_ _No, not really."_

Shane shot him a smirk. But it wasn't playful. It was merciless and wild.

 _"_ _You know what they say: when a dog doesn't eat his food, you know something's wrong."_

The mood of the dinner became ten times darker. The sun rushed forward in the sky and with no candles lit, Daryl could no longer see. Everyone around him disappeared, their presences and their bodies seeping into the gray air until there was only him and his empty plate and the girl.

His Beth.

His broken girl.

 _"_ _Daryl, look at me."_

He did what she asked. He would've done anything she asked.

 _"_ _What's wrong?"_

 _"_ _Ain't nothin' wrong."_

The words left his mouth and he regretted them. Everything was wrong. This was a dream and some part of his conscious knew that full well. Everything was wrong and he wanted out.

She frowned, that little stretch of skin between her eyebrows pinching.

 _"_ _Are you upset with me?"_

 _"_ _What? No."_

What was happening to the skin of her cheek, of her shoulder? He blinked and it withered. Shrunk. Shriveled. Turned the color of the air around them. Gray and rotten.

 _"_ _Are you mad at me?"_

 _"_ _No."_

Dead skin crawled down her arm. Across her chest. Over the bump of her nose.

 _"_ _Have I disappointed you?"_

 _"_ _Why in the hell would you think that?"_

 _"_ _Because—"_ Tears swelled in her eyes and she cupped her face in her hands. Rubbed at the temples that were now shriveled and splotched black and purple. _"Because I failed you."_

 _"_ _You did no such thing."_

 _"_ _Yes, I did."_ She raised her head from her hands and he nearly jumped out of his chair.

Two scratches, angry scarlet and dripping blood had cut into her temple and cheek.

And on the opposite temple was the circular bullet wound that had ended her.

 _Shattered_ _her_.

His broken girl.

His beautiful, inevitably fragile girl.

 _"_ _I failed all of you."_

She was gray and wrinkled and rotten all over now, her hands grabbing for him but he stumbled back, his chair turning over beneath him and spilling him onto the hard wooden floor.

 _"_ _Daryl—"_

 _"_ _No, stay away from me!"_ His breathing was ragged and sharp in his chest.

He hated the look of hurt in her eyes but soon, all too soon, that look dissolved into glassiness. Into milky blue irises and the loss of recognition.

The next time her mouth opened, it wasn't his name that came forth but a low, feral growl.

And the next time she touched him, her clawed fingers sliced through his skin like deli meat. He cried out in pain, kicked her off of him, tried to grab a weapon, to get away.

Daryl's fingers latched onto a butter knife and he swung around. Beth—not Beth, a monster—staggered to her feet and lunged for him.

The last thing he remembered before he opened his eyes was the _squelch!_ of flesh on metal and walker Beth dissolving into real Beth. Rosy and glowing and full of life. Her blue eyes widened and her grasp fumbled at the handle, her lips forming his name properly.

 _"_ _Daryl?"_

 _"_ _Beth! I-I didn't mean to!"_

She gasped around the bubbling blood in her mouth.

 _"_ You _failed_ me _."_

* * *

He knew that Alexandria should've been a place to relax, to catch up on his sleep. That's what Carol said. And Rick. And Michonne. Even Carl mentioned it once or twice that Daryl should settle in. Take a shower. Get a few Z's.

 _The kid's too grown-up for his own good sometimes._

But while everyone else was getting pedicures and playing house, Daryl was just trying to get past the nightmares and the hallucinations.

For months after Merle's death, he'd heard his brother's voice commenting on every little thing he did. _Wakey-wakey, Darlina. You can sleep when you're dead, which'll be soon enough._

 _Aw, c'mon, ya pussy! I could lift that like a pillow! And you call yourself a man._

 _Stop takin' orders from Officer Friendly. You ain't his errand boy, little brother._

Now he heard Beth singing. All day long. Twenty-four seven. She had sung a plenty while they were alone in the woods, filling up every quiet moment with a lyric and a breath.

 _And we'll buy a beer to shotgun, we'll lay in our lawn, and we'll be good . . ._

Sometimes, when she wasn't singing, he talked to her. He knew that she wasn't _really_ there. Still, he had no one else to speak to about this. Maggie was busy helping Deanna doing God knows what. Carol was off acting like a soccer mom. Rick was too busy trying to be a cop again.

 _Maggie._ That was a topic he brought up frequently with Beth.

"Not really mad at her anymore," he said under his breath as his hands worked to sharpen arrows. "I know she's sorry she didn't try to look for ya. I know she hates herself for not gettin' to Grady in time."

Hallucination Beth nodded. She always sat in his peripheral vision.

"Good. You can't stay angry forever. You gotta let things go."

"From what I remember, you can hold a real grudge when ya want to," snorted Daryl.

Beth's giggle was like a trickle of light into his darkened world. "Yeah, well, I guess I'm not as mature as I'd like to be."

"Daryl?"

Glenn appeared and hopped up the steps to the front porch, approaching the corner Daryl had deemed his own.

"What?"

"I'm gonna head out with Noah and Tara. You wanna come?"

Daryl checked the corner of his eye. Hallucination Beth gave him an encouraging smile and a quick nod of approval.

 _Go,_ she mouthed. _Be social._

"No," he answered despite her urgings. "I'mma stick 'round here. Gotta take care of a few things."

Glenn's eyebrows shot upward. "Um, okay. See you later then."

With that, Glenn disappeared down the sidewalk and was out of sight in minutes.

Beth hissed, "Why didn't you go with him?"

"Because," Daryl sighed, giving Beth his best _leave-me-be_ glare.

Hallucination Beth crossed her arms. "Because of _what_?"

"'Cause. If I go out there . . . " he trailed off, his eyes eager on the line of trees beyond Alexandria's walls. "I ain't so sure I'll come back."

* * *

 _"_ _Wanna go out there with me sometime? Help me find people?"_

Aaron had given Daryl an opportunity to be useful. To no longer sit, restless, on that porch like a caged animal. To no longer feel like the outcast again. Everyone else was fitting in like puzzle pieces here,

"Aren't you gonna take up his offer?" Hallucination Beth was sitting on the railing of said porch, her ponytail rustling in the evening breeze. She picked at the edge of her dirty yellow polo. "You'd have a bike again. And you'd be in the woods."

Daryl paused in skinning the squirrel he'd shot out of a tree at the edge of the walls. He chewed on his lip as he thought.

"Oh," continued Beth, her voice softer. "Is this about the 'if I leave, I might not come back' thing?" Her eyes widened. "You weren't serious, were you?"

Shrugging his broad shoulders, Daryl went on slicing the squirrel's flesh from the juicier meat underneath.

"I'm just tired of this shit. Sittin' around and actin' like all it's still the old world. What happened to just . . . I dunno . . . _helpin_ ' people? Findin' others and tryin' to make it together."

"You made it," she replied. Slipping off the rail, she joined him on the porch floor. "You all made it. So now you get to take a breath. A _break_."

" _We_ made it. But there are others who ain't."

Hallucination Beth gave him a mischievous smile.

"What?" hissed Daryl, irritated.

"So you're gonna take Aaron's offer."

Not a question, but a statement.

He looked at her, his eyes skimming her imaginary presence. Her imaginary face.

His broken girl, whole again.

Only in his wildest dreams.

She faded away quickly, leaving his mind muddled and his eyes stinging. Her touch and her voice and her smile, a smile he realized was proud, seeped away into nothingness.

"Yeah, I am." He spoke aloud though he was alone. "There are still good people. Good people who need a home."


	24. Then Comes Marriage

Their wedding is perfect—but not in all the usual, cliché ways.

 _Something old_ is a mother-of-pearl brooch found in one of the houses they'd passed through. S _omething new_ are the rings Daryl himself had hammered out of old brass key rings. _Something borrowed_ is the pale ivory sundress Maggie lent her younger sister. S _omething blue_ is the crown of wildflowers that Judith had picked and braided together for her to wear in place of a veil.

They decide to marry in the clearing behind the houses, where everyone could gather at once and be able to hear and see the ceremony. There are no chairs. No decor or music. Maggie sings a few bars of an old romance song as she and Glenn walk Beth down the short aisle. With a kiss to her sister's brow and a whispered _I love you, Bethie,_ Maggie follows her husband to stand off to the side; Rick clears his throat and begins.

"Everyone," says their leader. "We're here today because two, uh, _very_ unlikely people wish to be married. I know I'm the not the first to say that when Daryl came to me and announced that he wanted to marry Beth here, I was a little startled."

A collective chuckle resounds from the group. Blushing, Daryl ducks his head and smiles around a bitten lip. Beth reassures him with a squeeze of his fingers, a tender smile.

Rick plows on, "But I heard him out, and I agreed to do this for them. Daryl has done a lot for our family over the years. He has provided protection and food. Beth has watched over Judith from the day she was born, and worked hard to get back to the group even after we left her behind in Atlanta."

Everyone falls still, quiet, and melancholy. If Maggie wasn't crying before, she is now.

"Before our eyes, two of some of the strongest people I've ever known fell in love. And so, without further ado . . . Daryl, do you take Beth to be your lawfully wedded wife? In sickness and in health, through thick and thin?"

Daryl fights a growing grin, but loses.

"Yeah. I do."

 _Shit, now_ I'm _crying,_ Beth thinks with a laugh. She wipes hastily at the dampness on her cheeks and under her nose.

Rick turns to Beth next and asks, "Beth, do you take Daryl to be your lawfully wedded husband? In sickness and in health, through thick and thin?"

The tears are flooding her eyes, snot clumping in her nose, and all she can do is nod exuberantly until her head feels like it's going to pop off and roll away. If she opens her mouth, she'll croak like a frog due to all the tears.

"Takin' that as a yes," chuckles Rick. "Alright, time for the rings. Carl?"

Carl comes forward and holds out either hand to Beth and Daryl. Each take a ring and Carl, with a giant smile, rejoins Michonne and Judith in the audience.

"Daryl, repeat after me," Rick instructs. "With this ring, I take you as my wife, my companion, and my best friend."

Daryl focuses his gaze solely on Beth, on his bride, and poises the ring around the tip of her finger.

"Can I say somethin' first, Rick?"

Rick dips his head courteously, gesturing for his friend to procede.

Taking a breath, Daryl dives right in.

"I, uh, I never thought I'd be the kind a' man that would get married. Never thought I'd find someone who accepts me, who loves me, and who betters me the way you do, Beth." Now there's tears in his eyes and he releases one of her hands to smear away the tears before they can sail. "When I thought I lost ya . . . "

There he goes. Crying. Wordless. Because he can't finish. He can't bear to think about the moment when he carried her shattered body. He can't even venture in the direction of that part of their past without feeling his breath suck out of him quick and sharp.

Beth touches his cheek. She knows this pain, his burden and his guilt. No matter how many times she speaks of her forgiveness, Daryl will always hate himself for that day and the months they were separated, before and after.

"That's over now," she says softly. "I'm here."

The crying stops. He gives her a gentle smirk and slips the ring over her finger. Better days have already come, and more are to follow.

"With this ring, I take ya as my wife, my companion, and my best friend. I love ya."

"And it's your turn now," says Rick, turning to the bride.

Beth's smile is watery and wavering. "Um, if it's okay, I'm gonna say something, too."

"Sure. Go ahead."

"Daryl," she starts and has to stop because she wants to word this _just right._ "When I met you, I hated you. You were a redneck asshole and you didn't seem to care about anyone or anything. Then you got hurt looking for Sophia. You worked your _ass_ off trying to find Carol's daughter. At the prison, I saw more of this side of you. You went out and found formula for Judith because you couldn't bear to lose anyone else in our group. You helped save my sister and Glenn from the Governor. You kept me alive in the woods after the prison fell and all I wanted to do was lay down and give in." She giggles. "You gave me my first real drink. You showed me how to shoot a crossbow. You taught me how to survive."

"Ya got me beat on the speech there, Greene," he jokes.

But she knows he's uncomfortable with all the praise, with all the love. He's still the most humble man she's ever known other than her father and his teasing warms her chest.

"With this ring, I take you as my husband, my companion, and my best friend," Beth says, pushing the brass band until it fits snug on his finger. "And I love you."

Their hands are tightly linked. Bound. Intertwined. Just like their souls.

Rick clears his throat and brings everyone's attention back to front and center.

"I guess all there's left to say is this: I pronounce you husband and wife, and you, Daryl, may kiss the bride."

She pounces before the words have even left Rick's mouth and wraps her arms around Daryl's neck, pulling him down to her height. Their lips smash together, passionate, uneven, but so warm, so soft, sweet as honey. Clapping crescendos around them, a few catcalls mixed in. Daryl's hands are gentle yet firm on her waist and soon, all too soon, they break apart.

"More of that later," she whispers in promise.

He chuckles and releases her, only for both of them to be scooped up and embraced by their entire family. Maggie refuses to release her sister until they're all at the meager reception. Carl spins Judith around on the makeshift dance floor and feeds her morsels of cookie. Michonne and Rick slow dance among the other couples, all smiles and pink cheeks. This is the calmest everyone has been in ages. Hackles have died down; no one is on high alert or uneasy. Celebrations come few and far between in this new era the world has carved out for them, and they, it seems, have all silently agreed to simply enjoy it while they can.

Carol connects eyes with Daryl across the way. Walking over, she greets him with a kiss on the cheek, a warm hug, and a congratulations.

"I really am happy for you, y'know," she says. Crossing her arms, she leans back against the table where all the food is laid out. "It really is like you've grown up. I'm proud."

Daryl rolls his eyes and nudges her. "Thanks, Mom."

Carol pokes him back and laughs. Comfortable silence envelopes them; Beth spots the two across the crowd and comes skipping towards them.

"Here comes your wife," whispers Carol. "I can't believe how grown up _both_ of you are."

He raises an eyebrow. Blushes. "That's a word I'mma have t' get used to."

"What word?"

" _Wife_."

Carol chuckles and gives his arm a tight squeeze. "I'll see you later, pookie."

"Hi!" Breathless, Beth leans around him to grab a glass of lemon water and plants a warm, vanilla buttercream smooch on his mouth. "Why aren't you dancing?"

Daryl takes the glass from her hand gently and chucks back a long gulp.

"'Cause you were over there. Didn't have my dance partner."

"Well," her eyes sparkle as she grabs his hand. "I'm free now."

They dance for a while. His head lulling against hers, their torsos warm and smashed together. Then, dark comes, and everyone starts to head off to their homes and to bed, calling well-wishes as they go. Rick announces that he has a big wedding gift for the newlyweds and leads everyone off deeper into the streets.

"Thought y'all would like a place to yourselves," Rick says, leading just Beth and Daryl up the steps to the door. "Especially on your first night."

If they weren't blushing and flustered before, they are now.

Left to their own devices, the Dixons' walk into the house and lock up behind them. The tables and chairs have been dusted and cleaned. Warm lamps light the way to the living room and all down the hall.

"So," says Beth. Her hand is still linked with his and she doesn't want to let go. Ever.

"So," he echoes.

"Should we . . ." she bites her lip. Taps her bare feet on the hardwood floors. The flowers are still in her hair, but they're falling, and her dress has a chocolate stain on the lace at her collar. "Go upstairs?"

Daryl slides his eyes over to focus on her, but says nothing.

 _He looks so handsome today,_ she thinks. Somehow, Carol and Michonne wrangled him into a navy button down under his usual leather vest and a pair of jeans that _aren't_ ripped at the knees. His stubble has been trimmed. His hair is clean. He _smells_ clean but still like himself, like her good ole' redneck from the mountains of North Georgia. Soap will never completely mask the intertwining scents of pine, earth, musk and pure man.

Of course, he's always handsome; however, today is different. She guesses it's that "wedding day" glow. Maggie had been nearly golden pink for days after Glenn had taken her as his wife. Beth glanced in the closest mirror and found that her cheeks, though cool to the touch, were still colored with two giant bright scarlet spots.

"C'mon," says Daryl, pulling her out of the thick waters of reverie. "Let's go."

They ascend the stairs slowly. At the bedroom door, she waits as he takes off his shoes and leaves them to the side. Next, once inside, he sheds his vest and tosses it over the door handle.

Then he turns to her. She just stands there and allows him to touch her face, to slowly but surely pick every dying wildflower from the mess of her hair and drop them to the carpet.

She unbuttons his shirt.

He lets her hair fall down her back.

She releases the buckle of his belt and slips the leather out of the loops. _Clink,_ goes the metal buckle as it hits bottom.

He undoes the brooch from her dress's front. Takes the pearls from around her neck. A pile of jewelry and leather and dead flowers reign at their bare feet.

She pops the button on his jeans and slides down the zipper.

His eyes are heavy and heated and _sweet Lord_ she wants him to kiss her. So, so bad. She wants to taste him again. Wants to feel his warm skin against hers.

He shimmies her dress over the top of her head. White lace and ivory linen flutter like wings—and then there they are.

In their underwear. Vulnerable, exposed.

She touches the scars on his skin, traces his tattoos. They take their time exploring one another like that. He strokes the scar on her wrist, ghosts his fingers over the scars on her face. She walks around to examine and caress every branding his father left on his back.

They are both pieced together haphazardly.

Angry marks of their past will always haunt their skin.

They start to maneuver to the bed and suddenly her heart feels like it's being squeezed by a gigantic fist.

"I've . . . never . . . done _it_ ," she mumbles, returning to the awkwardness of before. All she can think about is that he might be far more experienced and she would disappoint him. All she can picture is Daryl, in his quiet, gentle way, letting her know that she didn't satisfy with her duties as a wife. _But he never would,_ she thinks. _He's too . . . wonderful to do that. He would never break my heart._

Suddenly her husband smiles, and she can see the anxious quiver riddled within his mouth. Together, they sit on the edge of the faded plaid quilt and face one another.

"Me neither."

Beth's eyebrows hop sky-high.

"But you're . . ."

Daryl mirrors her widened eyes and drawls, "Old?"

"No!" She slugs his arm. "You're not _old_ , Daryl. You're just . . . I thought you would've, _y'know_ . . . by now."

"Well, I haven't," he deadpans, though not angrily. He seems to read her exact train of thought yet he doesn't love her any less for it. Everyone knew that Daryl had lived a rough kind of lifestyle on the road with his asshole of a brother. "Guess you could say I never met the right person."

Beth feels the cherry red flush creeping up her neck. She giggles it off nervously and searches for something to say. _Ditto? I feel ya, dude? Same here, pardner?_ Their conversation comes to an uncomfortable screeching halt. The room around them flickers with the candles that light its very edges—and the warmth bounces off the bed. The sheets. Pillows.

They've never shared a bed—at least not like this.

"We've slept together before," she encourages. "Just slept, I mean. Why should this be any different?"

Daryl chuckles. Deep and raspy. It sends goosebumps racing over her arms and makes every minuscule fine hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

"I'll bet it's pretty different."

Silence. She tucks her leg beneath her bottom and hugs her arms over her nearly naked chest. She feels so exposed yet not at all embarrassed. He's supposed to see her, right? She wants him to see her . . . right?

"I'm so scared."

"Of what?" Daryl turns to her, takes her other forearm gently in his callused grasp. She can see the glint of his wedding band and it gives her yet another thrill as he says tenderly, "Wouldn't do nothin' to hurt ya, Greene."

Beth shakes her head. "Not about _that_. I-I don't want to disappoint you in any way. And you've gotta stop calling me Greene!" she giggles, shoving his chest playfully. "I'm Mrs. Dixon now, thank you very much."

He blushes again. Strokes her skin with his thumb. His eyes, the eyes that earned him the nickname "Squinty" in middle school but Beth calls _beautiful,_ are growing more intent, more heated, upon her own.

"Ya won't disappoint me. Whatever you do—whatever you _want_ to do, I'll be happy with. I ain't gonna push ya into anything ya don't want."

Here come the waterworks again. She hates herself for being such a crybaby today. _Pull yourself together, for Pete's sake!_ she scalds herself inwardly. _My makeup's gotta look horrible by now._

"You're too good to me, you know that?"

He grins. "Nah."

Wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer, she kisses the tip of his nose. "Yes, you _are_. Stop doubting yourself."

"Could say the same to you," he says, closing his eyes at the gentle caress.

Resting their foreheads together, they breathe each other in and stay still for a moment. Daryl's hands slip down to her waist, pulling the top half of her body to fit against his.

"Did Glenn give you . . ." There's no way Beth can say that word. Nope. No way. It would honestly feel dirty in her mouth. If they didn't need it, she wouldn't mention it.

But she can't chance bringing a child into this world, into this marriage, right away. She wants time to settle and she knows that he does too. They need time and they need to make sure that the walls will hold before their family grows. The thought of bringing a child into the world only to lose it . . .

Daryl's eyes flash open. "Rick did." _That word_ bothers him too.

"So do you . . ."

He takes a breath. Gives a smile. It's warm. Gentle. Sexy as hell.

"I'm down for whatever, Greene."

" _Mrs. Dixon,_ " she remedies.

"Yeah, yeah," his eyes glint with teasing and candlelight. "Mrs. Dixon."

Still, neither move to make any headway. They stay inanimate, stay entwined. She wants nothing more than to kiss him, then and there, until her lips were black and blue and her lungs screamed for reprieve.

"We'll figure it out along the way," she murmurs, pushing hair back from his eyes and tucking it behind his ears. "Just like everything else."

Daryl smiles. "Right."

Slowly, they lie back on the bed, side by side, and roll closer to one another. There is nothing to stop them from what they want now. No nosy big sisters or Biblical morales. They are husband and wife, and they love each other. So much that it may hurt.

"Daryl," says Beth. "I love you." Nothing fancy, frilly, or over-the-top. That's never how it's been with them.

They're close together. Chests touching. Hips grazing. His hands, callused and worn from years of work, trace the expanse of her waist, her hipbone, her outer thigh.

"Love ya too."

They collide.


	25. Lead a Horse to Water

_**PLEASE READ -** (scenario: Many years down the road, Beth and Daryl are married and settled in Alexandria with their family. Daryl still goes out on runs and scouting missions; during one of these outings, he and Aaron get separated and Daryl tracks his way back home. He comes across a stranger, an older man, and they end up sharing the evening and a campfire together)_

* * *

"Who is it you're trying to get back to?"

Daryl glances up at the man across the fire. It had been at least an hour since either one of them had uttered more than a word or a grunt; the sun had gone down, Daryl had lit the fire, and the man had strung up a few cans in the bushes. Neither one had relinquished their grip on their weapons, and it was looking like neither was going to sleep a wink that night.

The man purses his lips. "Can't hate me for being curious. I don't know you, you don't know me. It's a lonely life out here. Ain't much conversation between me and the trees."

It took a few minutes, a bite of fried squirrel, and some thinking before Daryl cares to reply.

"Got a wife."

"Have you now? How long you guys been together?"

"A while. Don't know exactly how long. Long enough and not long enough."

The man chuckles, picking at his teeth. "Yeah. I feel you. Any little rascals?"

Daryl chuffs. "Two. Well, three. One's...one's comin."

The man's face lights up. "I had two boys. They were grown, had their own families and lives."

Daryl just sits back and lets the man talk.

"My old lady passed couple of years before the Turn. Liver cancer. Glad she didn't have to deal with all this." The man glances around, at the eerily quiet forest, at the temporarily dormant night. Then he looks back to Daryl and asks, "You know your wife before all this? Were you married then?"

Daryl shakes his head. "After. Knew her for a while before we ever got together. Her family had a farm, see. And my group stayed there. Then we all had to run like hell when a herd came through. Stayed at a prison after that-"

"A prison?"

Daryl nods. He can't believe he's talking so much, can't believe he's telling this stranger such personal things. Normally he's cautious, plays his cards close to his chest, but the man has this...God help him, the man has a twinkle in his eye that's old world good, and Daryl just wants to give him the benefit of the doubt and trust the guy.

"Yeah. We made it our own. Then...shit went down, and we had to go. We all got separated. She and I...we got out together."

"Already married then?"

"Naw. Not even close to it."

The man chuckles. "Never did believe in love at first sight."

Daryl snorts. "Me neither. She was a pistol back then. Is now. Took me some time to get used to her. She's...nothin like me."

"Opposites attract. That sure is true. My old lady was the sweetest bird. Couldn't ever understand why she liked a douchebag like me."

"Yeah. Beth..."

"Her name's Beth?"

"Yeah."

"Hm. My daughter-in-law was a Beth." The man gestures for Daryl to continue so he does.

"Well, my Beth - she's strong and she's smart. But she's got this heart...she's sweet, like your woman."

"And your kids?"

Daryl can't help but smile a little thinking of his youngins.

"My firstborn is a pistol like her mama. She's seven. Her brother, he's quieter. Keeps to himself mostly."

The man smiles. "How far along is she with the new kid?"

"We're guessin' six or seven months."

"Planned or surprise?"

Daryl smirks. "They were all surprises."

The man throws his head back and laughs. "That's what makes them even better, huh?"

"Mmhmm."

They're quiet for a few minutes again and the cicadas rise in song around their campsite.

Then the stranger says, "Y'know, they say it's better to be alone so you won't hurt anybody. I thought that too, especially when the world ended. Didn't let myself join any groups. Didn't let myself get attached. Didn't even call my boys. I thought...I thought I would just be their burden. They had kids, y'know? I thought that they didn't need their old man riding their backs too with all this hell going down."

Daryl stares into the fire and keeps his yap shut. He's talked enough for one evening it feels like.

"But I have to say...I'm jealous of you, kid. You've got a family. You've got a home. You've got a future. I've got...this backpack and this knife and that's it."

Daryl glances up again and he realizes that he might have just enough energy to talk a little bit more.

"How many walkers have you killed?"

The man blinks and then answers slowly, "Lost count after thirty."

"How many people have you killed?"

The stranger blinks again, twice.

"Two. One was an accident. Fell off a cliff, swear to God."

"Why?"

"Self defense."

Daryl looks at him, weighs the man's every word, and then nods.

"You wanna come with me? We've got a place. It's got walls. People. Food."

In silence and a sense of shock, the man gapes at Daryl. He doesn't smile. He doesn't jump for joy.

Then he knocks Daryl clear on his ass.

"No, thank you."

 _"Why?"_

The man just shrugs.

"I don't deserve to be anybody's burden."

So the following dawn, Daryl wakes and says goodbye to his companion. He watches as the man turns in the direction from which he came, and he thinks about how true that old saying is.

 _You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink._

* * *

It's a hell of a long walk back home, but the sight of the gates makes the miles seem like mere centimeters.

Spencer calls down to Rosita and the gates rattle open. She greets Daryl's ragged form with a smile and a pat to his scruffy cheek.

"I was starting to get worried about you," she quips, giving him a quick hug.

He smirks and bats her off. "What are you, my mother?"

She doesn't have a chance to do anything other than roll her eyes before a high-pitched squeal shatters the sound barrier.

Daryl turns just in time to catch his firstborn as she tunnels head first in to him.

" _Daddy_!"

"Oomph!" Daryl tries to catch his breath and his balance as his son joins the party. Rosita laughs behind him. "Hey, easy there! Your old man ain't as sturdy as he used to be."

There's sloppy, sticky kisses and hugs and words not quite strung together right. And then the sea parts because here comes their mama, their beautiful mama, his wife, his world, his Beth.

In the middle of it all, his wife is there. The kids step aside because it's her turn now to welcome their father home.

Her arms wrap warm and tight around his neck and they can't quite fit together like they usually do because of her ever-blossoming womb. His eyes flutter closed and he breathes her in, committing the feel of her skin, of her taking a breath, of her hands in his hair to memory.

They part just long enough for her to cup his jaw in her palms and kiss him several times over in quick succession.

"I missed you," she exhales, and he can taste her hidden words. _What took you so long? I was worried._ Even after all these years, she worries about him each time he steps outside the walls of Alexandria.

He pulls her close again. Her embrace is home. Her warmth is his hearth.

"Missed you too," he says.

As his wife breaks away this time, as she gathers the children and takes his hand to head home, he thinks about the man he met on the road.

He used to be that man.

He used to think that he didn't deserve anything good.

Daryl looks at his family—his strong willed daughter, his quiet and quick son, and the one nestled in his wife's belly—and he sees beauty. He sees beauty that _came from him_. Beauty. Goodness. Love.

It took so long for him to realize that he was never anyone's burden but his own.


	26. Constellations and Galaxies

They're lying side by side underneath the stars, the warmth of their bodies underneath the sheets lulling their consciences into unriddled honesty and easy conversation.

"Daryl," she whispers on a breath.

A rustle of cotton. He turns his head, he looks straight at her.

"Mm?"

"What you do you want?" she swallows, regains courage, and forges brazenly ahead. "In life, I mean. What do you want from it all?"

His eyes are constellations; not even the cosmos are as light or as shining as his gray-blue irises, or as mesmerizing as his black, pooling pupils. She can feel every shift of his body as he settles deeper into the mattress. She can feel every movement echo into her own frame.

"Nothin' more than this."

She wants to smile, wants to break into an ear-to-ear grin and cover him in kisses, but she doesn't, she waits, she lets him talk. It's rare for him to talk like this so she lets him do it freely when he does.

His eyes are intent, warm, all-consuming.

"You're it for me, girl."  
"It?"

"Everything."


	27. Haircut

She's only been home a couple days, and she's shaky on her feet, but she finds herself something worthwhile to do other than listlessly follow Maggie around.

However the person she enlisted to help her with this task isn't nearly as enthusiastic about it as she is.

"Don't need a haircut, Greene."

Daryl's shoulders broadcast his irritated aura. At first, when she had grabbed him by the hand and whispered she had a surprise for him, his eyes had lit up and he had followed eagerly, like a puppy after a bone. Now he pouted like said puppy after finding out there was not a bone, but a bath waiting for him.

Beth snorts, taking the shears she'd found in a random bathroom drawer to a piece of dark hair by the nape of his neck. "I beg to differ. You're startin' to look like a mop."

He grumbles more underneath his breath, shifting back and forth on the stool. They're positioned on the Grimes' front porch for two reasons: A) it's easier to clean up outside and B) according to Alexandria's doctor, she's supposed to be getting lots of Vitamin D and human interaction, so at least she's getting a little bit of both. Y'know, killing two birds with one stone.

Combing through his hair to find another awry strand, Beth adjusts the worn pink towel she'd tossed around his neck and tries not to focus too much on the fact that this is the most she's touched him since her first night back. Since he'd come to her, lain with her, encased her in his arms and cried into her chest till he was breathless and shaky.

 _Can't believe you're here. Can't believe you're alive. I love you, girl. Don't care what they say. Love you. Want you. Need you._

"You likin' it here?"

The rumble of his voice pulls Beth out of the vortex of her thoughts and she clears her throat, focusing on the task and not the warmth of his skin.

"Yeah. I guess. It's just so . . ." _Clip-clip._ "Perfect."

Daryl shrugs. "Ya get used to it."

"Still not used to havin' a real bed. Or fresh food. Or clean clothes." Combing, clipping, combing again. Checking to make sure she's keeping the hair even as she cuts. "I keep thinkin' that something is gonna happen, the shit's gonna hit the fan, and everything . . . Alexandria, my sister, _you_ . . "

She pauses because her fingers are shaking, her grip on the shears loosening, and she has to take a breath because black spots and bright lights are clouding her vision, claiming her mind, yanking consciousness from her grasp—

"Beth. _Beth_. Hey, girl, look at me."

She's back in an instant, but it's been longer than that, and she can see that evidence in Daryl's gray-blue gaze. He's taken the shears from her and his hands, callused and reassuring, grip her upper arms to the point of near-bruising. She jerks at the pressure and he releases her, warily watching as she regains control of her brain and motions. Sometimes that scar on her head morphs into a blackhole. Sometimes she can't claw her way out on her own.

Beth sighs. "Sorry. I-I didn't mean to."

He bites his lip. "Not your fault. Ya can't help it."

Beth wants to retort with something cruel and useless, yet stops herself before she can utter a word. _But it is my fault. I'm the one who got my dumb ass shot._ She retrieve s the shears and gestures for Daryl to turn back around so she can continue her job. With another animalistic grunt, he does.

They sit in companionable silence until she's finished, the air between them filled with tension and distant conversation from within the house. Once she's done, she holds up the mirror she found in the same bathroom drawer as the shears.

"Ta-da!" she declares half-heartedly. "All finished. Whatcha think?"

Daryl took a single, fleeting glance and looked away, looked up to her, and gave one of those rare smirky smiles.

"Good job, Greene."

She smiles right back at him as she sets down the mirror and whips the towel off his shoulders, balling it up under her elbow.

"You look ten years younger with your hair this short."

"I ain't old," he grumbled, looking hurt.

Beth rolls her eyes. "Of course you aren't _old_ ," she exhales under her breath. Then she maneuvers closer, taking his scruffy jaw in her soft palms, kissing his brow that's actually visible for once. His arms wind around her, bringing her torso to torso with him.

Daryl Dixon before Grady Memorial would have never touched Beth Greene like this. If only it hadn't taken a gunshot to the head and months of separation for either of them to realize that what the world thought didn't matter, never mattered.

"You okay?" he whispers into her collarbone. "Want me to stick around?"

Beth shakes her head, releasing her hold and putting some space between them. "No. You and Aaron head on out. I've got to cut Carl's hair next if I can get ahold of him."

"Alright." He stands, squeezes her shoulder, and gives her another barely there smirk as he walks off the porch. "Be back tonight pretty late. Don't wait up for me."

Beth forces a smile. "Okay. I won't."

But she will, whether she wants to or not. Her mind won't let her rest until he's beside her, breathing her air, sharing her skin, and she knows he's safe and alive. That she's not dead. Not dreaming or hallucinating.

She watches Daryl go and then steps halfway inside the house.

"Carl!" she hollers blindly. "Your turn!"


	28. Nightlight

"Daddy?"

It's either too early or too late when he hears the soft whisper in his ear. At first, he bats it away like a pesky house fly and rolls over to the other side, being careful as to not disturb his pregnant wife's slumber.

" _Daddy._ "

Now there's a hand attached to the voice; a clammy, tiny hand that yanks at the band of his boxers because that's all he's wearing and all the hand can grab onto.

"Daddy, I can't _sleep_ ," hisses the voice desperately.

The voice finally invades his perception and he realizes it isn't a fly or his imagination or a dream, but Ella Ann, his daughter. His baby girl.

So he rolls back over to face her and finds her hands in the dark.

"Can't sleep, sweetheart?"

She must shake her head first because it takes her a moment to reply, "Uh-uh. Nightmares."

And because he's dealt with his fair share and more of nightmares, Daryl gets it. So he pulls his sleep-heavy body out of the bed, checks to make sure he hasn't woken Beth, and follows his little girl back to her bedroom next to their own. She leads him there by the hand, as if she knows every step by heart. Which she does; she comes to their bedroom nearly every night.

The nightlight plugged in by her bed casts moons and stars on the walls and a warm, ethereal glow on her dirty blond hair—much like his when he was her age. She's got her mama's eyes, though. Her mama's voice and her mama's personality, too.

Ella Ann releases her father's hand just long enough to crawl on the mattress and settle under the covers. Daryl kneels at the bedside and takes her fingers into his palms and kisses each and every tiny knuckle.

She's four. And she's so smart already, so strong. She's so much like her mama it takes his breath away.

"What are the nightmares 'bout this time?" he asks gently.

She gives a little sigh but it doesn't mask the way her body starts shaking.

"The monsters outside the walls."

His heart lurches, it immediately _aches_ , because there's _nothing he can do_. He can't make a show of checking underneath her bed or in her closet. He can't pat her on the head, kiss her cheek, and say _Baby, monsters ain't real. You've just a got a helluva big imagination like your mama, sweet pea._

He can't because these monsters in his little girl's nightmares are extremely real and extremely close.

He should know—he fights them every day.

"They can't get in, sweetheart," he reassures her, releasing one of her hands to brush back her bangs from her damp forehead. "The walls won't fall down."

The way the lie tastes in his mouth is strangely metallic and he hates himself instantly for lying to Ella Ann. The walls _had_ fallen once. Which means it could happen again. But he doesn't want to think about that. He can't. He has to push forward and so he listens as Ella Ann says,

"Yeah . . . but, Daddy, _you_ go _out_ _there_."

Could his heart actually sink any further?

Ella Ann was having nightmares because he put himself in danger.

Because she was scared for his safety.

Because she wanted him to come home to her and her mama in one piece.

He strokes her hair, caresses her cheek. "Daddy can handle himself, sweet pea. I've always came back, ain't I?"

"I know . . . but, _still_."

The nightlight glow catches onto the tears that threaten to spill down her sweet face and he leans forward, wrapping his arms around her as his little girl cries into his shoulder, clutching at his long hair and whispering, "I'm sorry—I'm _sorry_ , Daddy—"

"What are ya sorry for?" he mumbles into her ear. He crawls onto the bed and holds his daughter in his lap, allowing her to take her time calming down. "I'm sorry I scare ya like that, El. Don't mean to."

She blubbers, "Daddy, I just don't want you to die like Mr. Harry!"

Harry had been apart of their community for a while. He was a nice man, an easygoing man, as far as the apocalypse went. He'd volunteered for a run and never came back. Walker got him in a storage unit. Daryl had been there, not ten feet away, watching as the undead converged and devoured the helpless man after a giant metal shelf pinned him down.

Daryl still feels guilty about it.

Cradling Ella Ann closer, he whispers, "I won't, baby, I promise I won't. I'll get old and fat and wrinkly and you'll get tired of seeing me, sweet pea. I promise."

She sniffles and she blubbers until there isn't any energy left and then she sleeps, without another word, and he knows she doesn't believe him, not even a little bit—but he's glad she doesn't.

She's strong. She's smart. She knows the reality of their world.

And so he lies back and holds his little girl while he can because first thing in the morning he's going on a run with Aaron and Rick and he doesn't know if he'll be in Harry's shoes. He doesn't know if he'll get to return.

So he holds Ella Ann and he whispers,

"You'll be okay no matter what happens to me."

* * *

Daryl thinks he woke up early enough that he wouldn't disturb Beth - but is proved wrong about halfway down the stairs when he hears the clink of a spoon and the slow sip-slurp that means his wife is drinking her morning cup of tea.

"Hey, what you doin up?"

Beth gives him a warm smile and greets him with a gentle peck.

"Couldn't sleep." She pats her belly. "Baby boy here is keeping me up at night, kickin and movin all around."

He snuffs, "Heh, I bet." Moving around her, Daryl grabs himself a quick breakfast of coffee, dried tomatoes, and zucchini bread. He sits down and stuffs his face quickly while Beth shuffles around the kitchen, getting Ella Ann's breakfast ready slowly.

Daryl brings his plate over for her to wash and goes to turn, to leave, mumbling a goodbye and giving her forehead a hasty kiss -

"Hey," she grabs his arm and pulls him back. Her eyes hold worry and her lips are pursed. "I heard Ella Ann crying last night. What was wrong? Bad dreams again?"

Daryl freezes and then nods. "Yeah. Sorry, tried to keep it quiet."

"A mama can't sleep when her baby's crying. I almost came in there but I figured you had it handled. Is she okay? What were the nightmares about this time?"

"Well...she's alright, I guess. But she...uh, she...she was worried about me...and the monsters."

His wife's eyebrows shoot up, knit, and then slowly, slowly sink.

"The walkers."

"Yeah."

"She's scared you'll get..."

"Yeah." He nods again.

Beth presses a hand to her heart. "And you told her...?"

"That I would always try to come back to y'all in one piece. Always."

Beth nods, biting her lip. "Good call. I just...she's so young, Daryl. She's gonna see them one day. She hears them sometimes. She's heard some of the stories. I know we can't protect her forever..."

Daryl bobs his head along with her. He knows what Beth's thinking, feeling, wishing.

"She's four, Beth. She'll be grown up 'fore we know it. We can't hide the world from her, or her from it."

His wife drops her head into her hands and he pulls her into his chest.

"Hey," he whispers into her sunlight hair. "Hey, she's strong."

"I know," sniffles Beth against his shirt. "I know she is."

"And we'll teach her how to fight. How to survive."

"I know."

He pulls back, they part and he touches her chin with his thumb, and she smiles through the tears in her eyes.

"I gotta go."

"I know."

"I love ya, Beth."

"I know," she says softly, sealing it with a kiss. "I love you too."

He lets her go, he goes to leave once more, but she stops him a second time. They meet eyes and she gives him a wide, confident smile.

"You're gonna come back in one piece. You're gonna come back to us. I believe it. I know it."

He can't help but smile a little at her unwavering faith and unfailing love for him.

"I'm glad you do."


	29. Songbird

**There's a ringing in his ears and it won't die.**

He passes through life these days like its a river of concrete not quite dry. Every step is heavy and every breath is lead.

Glenn offers water and he refuses.

Carol reaches for him, her fingers grazing his arm, and he jerks, the ringing intensifying in his ears, in his head.

"You okay?" She whispers and God it's like nails on a chalkboard and he wants to scream.

He wants to shoot something. He _needs_ to shoot something. He needs to breathe without someone making sure he doesn't stop on the inhale.

So he shrugs Carol off and he mumbles something along the lines of "going scouting'; don't follow" and heads for the woods.

Out there the ringing isn't so bad. The sound of nature - of birds and cicadas and squirrels - it comforts him; and when he's in the woods, he feels her there more strongly than anywhere else.

He's walking along when a bird lands on a low tree branch several feet away and starts singing to its distant brethren.

A songbird.

 _Like her._

He approaches the bird so quietly it doesn't startle, doesn't fly off. He whistles its tune back to it, mimicking the notes the best he could.

And when the bird replies in kind, Daryl can hear the ringing fade away to a background noise.


	30. Origins of Tragedy

Ella Ann doesn't remember the first time she realized that those marks on her mother's face were scars.

She doesn't remember how old she was went it suddenly hit her that something bad had to have happened to her beautiful mama for those scars to be there.

But one day she finally has the courage to ask why those angry lines are on her mama's cheeks and forehead. She finally gets up the courage to ask why her father sometimes has to hug her mother like she's oxygen and he's breathless.

Beth smiles when her daughter asks.

"I'll tell you when you're older, I promise."

"I'm old enough, Mama."

Beth laughs. "Alright. Well, I was trapped in this hospital and I had gotten hurt. Then someone else hurt me even more. Your daddy tried to save me but something happened and we got separated. It took me a while..." Beth's blue eyes went dark and distant. " . . . but I got back to him."

"And then happily ever after, right?" Ella Ann huffs. She hates princess stories and she hates being lied to and she feels like this is a little bit of both.

Beth shakes her head. "No, baby, not for a long time."

Instead of pushing or asking anymore questions, Ella Ann shuffles over and squeezes her arms around her mother's waist, hoping that she'll except this as an apology.

"I'm glad you found Daddy."

Her mother's arms wrap around her in return and squeeze.

"I am too, sweet pea."


	31. Sunlight in the Kingdom

Morgan sat patiently at Carol's side; his friend's unconscious form was the only thing anchoring him to the room and to reality. He had no concept of how much time had passed since he'd departed from Rick and gone off on his own - at least a day, maybe two - but he was weary as he speculated what would happen if he did not get word to Rick and the others soon. Rick was known to hail the calvary when one of his own was in enemy territory, and although the people in this community had been kind so far . . . to Rick that was just a front.

Light footsteps and the squeak of rubber on tile broke Morgan's line of thought. A girl, not very tall and not too short, stood just inside the door with a clipboard in hand. Her hair was sunlight blond and she had three scars on her face - two were lines and one was a circle.

Morgan greeted the girl wearily, "Hello."

But the girl ignored him, her eyes and body entranced with Carol. Stepping forward as if she were falling into another realm, the blond girl reached for Carol's hand.

Morgan cautioned, "Miss, are you..."

The girl didn't come back to reality completely as she continued to stare at Carol's resting body and whispered,

"I think I know her."


	32. Love, Family, War

Three days have passed since Grady and no one has said more than necessary to either Maggie or Daryl.

The silence among the group is not only deafening, but perturbing. Every few minutes Daryl has to knock the side of his head with the heel of his palm to clear the ringing from his ears. Other than the scuffle of boots and the slosh of a water bottle here and there, it's quiet, but not the peaceful kind and most definitely not the good kind.

It's quiet like a graveside service. Quiet like a church as everyone bows their heads to pray. Quiet like the hours after dead of night and before the dawn, when even the nocturnal creatures have stilled for a breath.

They've made camp a ways off the highway. There's one small fire; Judith and Carl are the closest to it, the others scattered about but bunched together, eyes wide and watchful from where they recline against tree roots and rocks. They eat the meek meal that Daryl and Sasha hunted down together: a few skinny rabbits and several fat squirrels.

Everyone settles down to sleep.

Daryl doesn't.

He can't.

If he sleeps, he'll see _her_.

So he stays wide awake through the night, crossbow in his lap, guarding the campsite. Carol, Tara, and Rick take turns beside him. They still don't speak unless needed. Tara tries her hardest to get him to smile, to crack even one tiny bit of a smirk, to no avail.

Daylight comes and he still can't breathe right—it's not from all the cigarettes he's smoked all his life, he knows how _that_ rattling feels. It's different. It's suffocating, like the silence. There's still that ringing in his ears and he's starting to believe it's not from the utter lack of talking but from the two shots that rang back to back in that cramped hospital hallway seventy-two hours ago.

The group awakens, eats breakfast, and starts to pack up for the day of walking ahead. Daryl taps Carol's shoulder and mumbles, _gotta take a piss_ and heads off from the camp a little ways for a moment of privacy. He's on the way back when he hears sniffling.

He almost doesn't investigate, but then he does, he wishes he'd listened to instincts and hadn't.

It's Maggie. Sitting there in the middle of wild berry bushes, knees to her chest and face in her hands, bawling her eyes out.

 _Don't let her see you. Don't let her see you. Don't let her—_

"Daryl?"

He'd turned to walk away and stepped on a damn twig. Careless. Stupid. As was per usual these days.

Looking at the older Greene sister sent a stabbing pain through his gut. He seethed with a blackened rage, a ravaging fury, and he wanted nothing more than to run, run as far away as possible, so his anger could stay inside. So it wouldn't hurt anybody. So _he_ wouldn't hurt anybody else _ever_ _again_.

Maggie struggles to her feet, wiping snot and tears off her face with her sleeve. "I-I was just gettin' some water," she lies. Her eyes shine with a throbbing melancholy ache as she comes up to him. "Are we leavin'?"

"Yeah. In a minute." He fights it, but he knows that he's like his brother in this way, that sometimes his anger makes him stupid and reckless and his tongue like a cat-o'-nine-tails. "Why were you out here cryin'?"

She looks at him like he's lost it. "Because . . ." she mumbles, lips trembling.

And there. The seal has burst.

He can't hold it in anymore.

"What, you cryin' for _her_?" He chuckles and it's more like a scoff, more like a growl. "Naw, you don't get to keep sittin' around and boo-hooin'. Not for _her_. _You_ gave up on her! She looked for ya till she nearly dropped and _you gave up on her._ Even after I told ya she was alive back in that train car…ya didn't listen! I _never_ stopped lookin'! I never stopped tryin' to find her, not for a second!"

He takes a breath. He sucks it in as Maggie gawks at him, her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide as the full moon that still hadn't faded from the sky.

"I went to save her and you were off on your self-righteous mission to save the damn world," he goes on because there's no way to pull the emergency brake on this train. "That girl talked about you _every damn_ _day_ , talked my ear off about you—and you just _gave up._ You didn't believe me. Didn't believe in her. So you _don't get to sit around and cry for her!_ You don't deserve to."

Daryl was not expecting to see stars next, or to feel an exploding, instant pain in his left cheek. He reared back but didn't fall, and when he opened his already swelling eye, he saw Maggie shaking out her hand.

Around a wince, Maggie growled,

"Screw you, asshole."

And with that, she stomped back towards camp.


	33. Alive Again

The world is shattering from the inside outand everything is exploding into specks of white light outside his window. It's two-thirty in the morning, and he still can't sleep.

Not that this is anything new. He hasn't really slept . . . well, _ever_. The most shut-eye Daryl Dixon has ever caught was after that big brawl in a random biker bar back in '03, when a giant named Big Mike conked him into oblivion. Daryl had been  
out for two days, and woke up with two shiners as a prize.

Since this is like every other night, he reaches a certain point where he can't stand lying there in the dark for another nanosecond. Rolling off the bed and onto his feet in a single move, he heads for the door and the stairs, deciding to head over to  
Aaron's garage to work on something, _anything_ , just to keep his hands and mind busy. As he descends the stairs, Daryl hears a shuffle, a metallic rattle, and he reaches for the pocketknife he constantly keeps with him before he turns the corner  
and finds a dripping wet rat in the Grimes' kitchen.

"Beth?"

The invader glances up as she places a tea kettle on the glowing blue flame.

"Hi."

He pitterpatters deeper into the kitchen, bare feet sticking and unsticking to the floor.

"Whatcha doin' here?"

She shrugs as she tiptoes over to the cabinets, leaving a trail of water behind her. She grabs a mug, considers it, glances over and considers him, and grabs a second mug.

"Couldn't sleep. Took a walk. It started pourin'…" she sighs, setting down the mugs by the stovetop. " . . . wound up here. I was too far from Maggie's house."

Daryl nods as he watches her work; as she grabs honey, as she steals a spoon and holds it between her teeth, as she pours hot water over the tea bags in the two mugs sitting side by side. One's blue with white polka dots, the other is black with the Army  
seal. Totally opposite.

"You walk 'round by yerself? At night?"

Beth rolls her eyes as she turns to set the mugs on the island and slides onto a barstool. Water trickles down her ponytail, her back, her legs to the floor. _Drip drop. Plip plop._

"I've got a knife."

He can't help but smirk a little; he takes the stool across from her and wraps his hands around the polka dot mug she shoves his way with the tip of her finger.

"Why can't ya sleep?"

She raises her eyebrows over her mug, taking a slow sip.

"You know why."

Daryl nods again. Bites his lip. He sniffs the tea—it's chamomile—but doesn't drink. He's really just using it for warmth, like a small fire in his hands, and it's just barely keeping the shivers at bay. The raging autumn storm had really brought down  
the temperature.

They chat for while, their voices hushed and gentle compared to the thunder and scraping tree branches outside the window. Unlike when either talk to any of the other members of their family or their community, these conversations when its just the two  
of them are the most natural. Most comfortable. Most genuine.

Then he asks her once again why she can't sleep.

This time she doesn't avoid the answer.

"Every time I try to sleep…" Beth traces the lip of her mug with her fingers, staring intently into the nearly empty content. "I'm scared I won't wake up here...or that I won't wake up at all."

Daryl doesn't quite know how to reply. _It's okay, I understand,_ won't suffice. Won't cover how well he knows the feeling of waking up from a nightmare in the pitch black of his room and not knowing for a moment if he's inside the walls or outside,  
in the forest, with the walkers and the decaying earth. If the walls will hold. If the food will last. If tomorrow will come or if his eyes will open.

"C'mon," he mumbles.

She glances up at him, eyes round and wide and glowing with caught moonlight, her hair dripping rivulets down her back. She's in a t-shirt, sweatpants, and boots and every inch of her is drenched in rainwater.

"C'mon, where?" She asks with such innocence, with such softness.

"Getcha some dry clothes. Don't need ya gettin' sick."

Beth smiles and eases off the stool. She follows him up the stairs, lightning guiding their way here, his hand and light tread guiding her there, and then they're outside a door.

"Is this your room?"

He grumbles a response, just intelligible enough for her to take it as a _yes_.

"When did you get a room?"

"A while ago." He leaves her by the door and shuffles towards the only other piece of furniture in the room, a dresser. He ruffles through a drawer and grabs a shirt and some sweatpants that most definitely aren't from his own pickings. He finds her again  
when a flash of light sharpens the details and edges of the room.

"Here. Change."

She doesn't hesitate to strip down right in front of him. How many times had she bathed, half or completely naked, with him mere feet away? So she drops her clothes off to the side in a pile and once she's changed she doesn't budge.

"Don't you gotta go back to Maggie's?"

"I can't sleep at Maggie's."

"Why not?"

The way she answers is by sidling around him and sitting on the bed. He stays still, fidgeting.

"Can I stay with you?"

He moves closer.

He thinks.

He stares at her and God she's beautiful in the moonlight and the lightning.

He gives in.

"Don't see Rick mindin' it."

She tugs him closer by his shirt and it's the most they've touched in a long time.

"Do you mind?"

"Nah."

The two of them crawl onto the bed together, quickly falling sleep, while the world tries to destroy itself around them.

But just before unconsciousness, Daryl holds her even more near and whispers into her dripping wet hair:

"You're alive, girl." A flash of lightning and a roll of thunder makes her jump, clutching his collar. He smirks. "Believe me. Can feel your heart beatin' fast."

She raises her face slowly, peeking out from his collar, peering up at his features in the dark, and finds her mouth speaking close enough to his that they brush.

"I'm only alive with you."


	34. Pristine Reminders

**ONLY READ MY NOTE AT THE BOTTOM AFTER YOU'VE READ THE CHAPPIE AND ONLY READ IT IF YOU DON'T REALLY GET WHAT HAPPENED :)**

* * *

 **"Darlin', stop."**

He only ever called her _darling_ when he was exasperated, pleading, or desperate. The usual endearments were _honey, sweetheart, baby._ Darling was a special occasion word.

She dropped the tiny white sweater she was folding back into the drawer and slammed it shut, the _wham!_ of wood on wood shattering the content air of the room.

Her eyes were raw, her throat was torn to bits, and her lips dry and crackling apart from the edges to the middle.

"What?"

More of a whine than a question; more of a plea to be left alone than an inquiry.

"Ya can't stay in here all the time," Daryl said. Still hadn't budged from the door, still hadn't touched her because the last time he had she nearly broke his hand. "It'll . . . it ain't good for ya."

"Oh, so you, like everyone else seems to think, know what's _good for me_?"

Here it comes. The rising tide, the ever-lingering rockslide hiding just beneath her skin.

"You don't even know _what it feels like_."

He sighed. Shifted on his feet uncomfortably. He wasn't walking away this time, no. This time he was going to finish the conversation.

"Naw, I don't."

"And everyone keeps tryin' to tell me they're sorry and they all look at me like I'm some pitiful little _thing._ Daryl, I just can't—"

She bursted into a flood of tears and collapsed on the floor, her only anchor the innocently white crib behind her. He eased across the floor to her, slowly sinking into a kneel, and picked up her hand, covered in snot and tears.

"Darlin'," he whispered. "It ain't your fault."

Beth shook her head vigorously. "How can you say that? It _is_ my fault. I'm the only one who—" every shuddering breath shivered all over. "We lost her because of me."

* * *

 _Yes...this is_

 _a headcannon I had about Beth having a miscarriage..._


	35. New Home

_Forgive me for the very first line...a lot of what I write seems to circle around the fact that Daryl can't sleep due to the loss of Beth..._

* * *

Everyone was asleep except for Daryl, who's eyes hadn't shut for more than an hour since Grady Memorial. Rick, of all people, slept more easily than him.

He had taken up residence on the porch for a while, but now was seated near Judith's crib. The group was curled up in clusters around the living room; only a few of them actually had dared to spread out into the foyer. The air wasn't nearly as sticky in Alexandria as it had been in Atlanta. Instead of sweat building up on his upper lip and forehead and soaking his shirt, there was only the sensation of clamminess.

The house was so clean it made Daryl's skin crawl. He kept thinking, feeling, that _she_ would come around the corner any second, _any second_ , with a lively tune humming on her tongue and hair fresh from the shower like at that woman's house so many months ago. She'd ask him if he was okay and he'd shake it off—he was being stupid, he was _fine_ —

Judith whimpered, the cry turning into a low wail and he was the first one to her. Rick didn't even stir, nor Carl, who were normally the ones to startle at the first sign of the baby girl's distress. He'd held Judith plenty, but for some reason unknown it was harder this time to do so. She was heavier and wiggled in his hands even when he held her close and rocked her against his chest.

"I know, sweetheart, I know," Daryl kept saying, patting the baby's back and breathing in her downy scent. Even if anyone had been awake to listen, they wouldn't have been able to hear his near inaudible whisper.

"I miss her," he said. "Know you won't remember her . . . wish you could."

Judith started to calm down, her chubby fingers grabbing at the bristle on his chin, eyes big and blue yet nothing close to the bright cerulean of Beth's.

"She was real good to you. Took care of you . . . took care of me."

Judith gurgled. She jerked back, losing her balance as babies often did, and scared him; Daryl tightened his arms on her little body until she was secure. Her eyes were wide open and he could tell she wasn't going to be nodding off again for a while.

"Gonna keep me company?" He sat back down in his spot, leaning back and settling Judith comfortably on his middle. "Alright. Just don't wake up nobody."

Daryl came to the next morning to Carl sliding Judith carefully out of his arms. The kid gave him a tiny smile and muttered, "Mornin'." Everyone was moving about, talking and getting ready for the day ahead. He didn't bother to stick around to figure out breakfast or his place in this society; grabbing his gear, he went for the front door and open spaces. Being stuck in a crowded room too long left him itching for the woods and something to kill.

He saw her when he walked down the street. Glimpses, here and there. Could've sworn he saw a blond ponytail whip from the corner of his eye, or a pale yellow shirt disappear into the mirage on the asphalt. But it didn't leave his chest and stomach aching so much anymore. Ease was settling in where pain had taken root, and sometimes, he could take a breath without suffocating.


	36. Walk-Ins Welcome

_**Hello, my lovelies!**_

 _ **So I saw a random Tumblr writing prompt on Pinterest that stated something along the lines of "Imagine your OTP in a tattoo shop owner/florist AU...you probably already know who best fits which...NOW SWITCH THAT"**_

 _ **So I thought that was ABSOLUTELY FREAKING PERFECT for Bethyl. I mean, who would expect Daryl Dixon to work in a flower shop?! Anyway, this is messy and random and I just wanted to have fun with it. It's kind of boring, honestly. I'm still stuck, mentally. Writing little things like this help, though.**_

 _ **Thanks for reading! Much love!**_

 _ **XOXO,**_

 ** _OceansAria :)_**

* * *

Business was slower on Mondays.

Then again, business was _always_ slow at Dixon's Flower Shop. Located on the Main Street of Fayetteville, Georgia, the only thing really keeping the doors open were the few loyal customers or the (few) weddings and (more often than not) funerals.

Daryl Dixon stood alert behind the counter, fingers tapping mindlessly against the Formica. He was stuck here from 8 to 4 every day, six out of the seven days a week since his aunt's (whom hadn't known existed until four months ago) health wasn't up to handling working the shopfront anymore.

He hated working there.

Every morning, every noon, every evening—he told himself _not much longer._ As soon as he had the shop sold, he would be out on the road again with his older brother, Merle. They had been called back to this tiny Georgia town when Aunt Maye had her first stroke; Merle had refused, but Daryl being the "pussy" brother, agreed to come and take care of the shop until its imminent end . . . or Aunt Maye's. She was family after all and the money wasn't half bad.

Nothing really interesting happened in the shop or in the town. Main Street was slowly and painfully crumbling into dust—especially since the Walmart had gone up down the highway. All the mom-and-pop stores were taking a major hit. The younger generation flocked to brighter and better while the older generation stuck to what they knew, though they as a whole were stingy with their retirement funds.

Nothing really interesting had happened in the four months since the Dixon brothers had rolled into town. Every day was a blur of elderly faces, a few sales, and the same conversations with the nurseries that supplied the shop with inventory. Every day was a colorless mesh of breakfast, work, lunch hour, work, dinner, sleep. While Daryl worked, his brother was out spending every dime they made on heroin, booze, or women. It was an exhausting and vicious cycle.

Nothing interesting at all happened that particular day until one o'clock when the door opened, the bell tinkling out a welcome, and _she_ walked in.

She was young, that was the first thing Daryl noted. Like, _young_ young. She had to be barely twenty, maybe eighteen or nineteen. Her hair was a pale blond, wispy and long and a little curly here and there. Delicate hair to match her delicate features. Her eyes were a brilliant blue, her skin somewhat porcelain as if she had seen some sun, and her mouth pink and pursed in thought as she glanced around at the selections.

She was pretty, that was the second thing Daryl noted. _Very_ pretty.

He watched, hoping he didn't appear as a lurker, as she floated about the shop. Her sundress was a spring green and sleeveless, showcasing the tattoos on her right arm. To top off the altogether quaint and charming hometown girl facade, she wore worn cowboy boots.

"How much are the peonies?"

Daryl didn't realize how hard he'd been staring until this image of angelic perfection and daintiness spoke.

She spoke and her voice did things to him, to that throbbing appendage in his chest. She spoke and he felt he couldn't.

She didn't seem to think him strange for it, however. She simply stood, patiently waiting for the shop owner to gather up the mess of his mind that had fallen to the floor in pieces. She stood, smiled a little, and held out the bouquet of baby pink peonies bound at the stems with rubber bands, awaiting a reply.

 _Maybe she's used to getting ogled by old guys,_ Daryl thought self-depreciatingly. _Or maybe she just knows she's so freakin' pretty._

"Uh—um, they're ten for the bundle," he managed to shove out of his mouth with extreme effort. His tongue tumbled helplessly like a dying animal and he hated himself for stammering.

She nodded, scrutinizing the bouquet. "Pricey. But they're awfully pretty."

 _Yes, you are._

"Sure you couldn't cut me a deal?" She was smiling more now, her lips curling up towards her eyes. There was a teasing edge to her voice. "All us shop owners help each other out around here. What, with the economy gone belly up."

Daryl frowned. "You own a shop?"

She laughed and he wanted to bottle it up and save it—like children wished to keep the fireflies they caught in jars on warm summer nights.

"Well, yeah. The tattoo parlor next door." She hooked her thumb westwards.

"Really now?"

"Yeah. That's my place."

Daryl recalled the sign he'd seen every day on his walk to work for the past several months. _Greene Ink_. After first thinking the name was stupid, he'd figured it was the owner's surname and continued on.

Eyebrows stitched together, he pointed at her, thinking out loud:

"So you're . . . "

"I'm Beth," she stuck out her free hand. "Beth Greene."

Listening to the voice at the back of his mind pushing him to be normal, Daryl shook her offered hand gently for fear of breaking her. Her grip was strong and slightly callused—which both surprised and aroused him, oddly enough. He studied the ink on her skin as she broke the connection of their palms. The artwork began at her shoulder with green vines and pastel pink roses, fading into music notes and sparrows by her forearm and wrist. He wondered if she had done it herself.

"Daryl Dixon."

Beth's eye lit up with interest. She inquired, "So you're related to Ms. Maye, then?"

"She's my aunt."

"Oh! I didn't know she had any living family left."

"Yeah," Daryl chewed his lower lip. "We didn't either."

Beth nodded, growing quiet. It wasn't a pitying quiet, just the accepting kind. "It's good she has you around," she admonished, touching his arm like they were old comrades. "How's she doing?"

He shrugged. A blush was burning its way up the back of his neck like an enduring forest fire. "Okay, I guess. Don't think she'll last much longer, though."

A glance of genuine sorrow crossed Beth's face. "Oh. Oh my God. I'm so sorry."

Confusion left another tangled disaster of thoughts in its wake. No one had ever said this to him. Well, they had, when his mom died. But no one had ever said it and meant it. He wished to comfort Beth; she was more upset than him about Aunt Maye's soon-to-come passing than he was. He was the old lady's blood kin for God's sake and he didn't give a rip.

"Don't be. I barely know the broad."

Why did he always do that? Why did he always have to make himself look hard-hearted and hateful?

It didn't work on Beth the way it worked on other people because again, she nodded, accepting, and swiftly, smoothly, changed the subject. She sidled up to the counter and set down the bouquet to reach into the small leather bag hanging from her wrist.

"I'll take these," she said, her blue eyes remaining on him as he slipped back behind the counter to ring her up. "They're for my sister. She just had her first baby."

"Congrats," he mumbled, hoping it sounded as genuine as her concerned pleas had moments earlier. "Boy or girl?"

Beth beamed. "Boy. I haven't seen him yet, but I know he's _gorgeous._ He's half Asian. My brother-in-law is Korean. I just _know_ he'll have Glenn's silky black hair and my sister's green eyes."

Daryl snorted yet said nothing. He punched a few buttons on the register and asked if she would like the bouquet wrapped in foil, in a vase, or tied up with a pretty ribbon, as per protocol. Beth waved off the offer and handed him a twenty dollar bill, enough to cover the fee and the sales tax plus more.

Daryl protested, "Though you wanted me to cut you a deal—"

Beth shook her head, her ponytail of sunlight dancing around her bare shoulders. "No. Keep the change. I'm sure that the healthcare bills are enormous for your aunt. Ms. Maye's a special lady; she deserves the best." She settled the bouquet in the crook of her arm, turning to go. "Feel free to stop by my shop anytime." She reached out to touch the permanent demon on the inside of his bicep. Casual touches, just like before. Casual and easy as if they were friends. Casual and easy touches that made his heart leap into his throat and his lips mute.

"Your tat looks faded," she commented, concentrating on the lines underneath her fingertip. "It's a nice piece. I'd be happy to touch it up for you. Walk-ins welcome."

With a final smile, a final blow to this heart, Beth Greene walked away and pushed open the door, sending the bell above her head into a frenzy.

"Come by tomorrow and we'll set up an appointment for you. See you later, Daryl."

"See ya," he found himself saying subconsciously. The twenty dollar bill was still in his fist; someone had doodled roses on the edges in blue ink.

No, nothing much interesting happened in Fayetteville, Georgia.

But something just had.


	37. The Cell

Each night he was kept in the cell he was visited by angels and demons and ghosts alike.

The first night his brother came. Merle prodded and poked and tried everything to get Daryl on his feet. He growled, he screamed, he hollered until he was blue in the face and nose to nose with his younger brother. By the time Daryl passed out from exhaustion and hunger, his eardrums were bruised.

The second night it was Denise. He reckoned that the freshest deaths, the ones that had cut him the most deeply in the latest months, were the ones that were being extracted from his inner conscience to torture him. He knew all along that these were hallucinations, that nothing about either encounter so far was even remotely genuine, but he allowed them to continue.

He had nothing better to do.

After Denise and her placations, Abraham appeared. His head was intact as well as his sense of humor and tireless tongue. Abraham seemed to be attempting to cheer the archer, jesting about the shitty food and the bad conditions and how he'd had worse in the army, but failed miserably and soon faded into the shadows like the other two had before him.

On the third night, Daryl was visited by Glenn. His Korean friend spoke as he always had, about anything and everything, from his time as a pizza delivery boy to the baby Maggie carried and he would never get to hold. By the time Dwight brought Daryl his dog food sandwich, the archer was face down on the concrete, stifling sobs, hands pressed to his ears.

When Daryl awoke some time later, he was greeted by soft singing and a hand stroking his hair. He raised his head from Beth's imaginary lap but she gently pushed him back into place, urging him to rest in order to recover. _I'll keep watch,_ she said before returning to singing. He slept fitfully, lulled back into unconsciousness every time he awoke by her idyllic melodies.

Dwight came for him that morning and tossed clothes in his direction.

"Get up. Time to go."

Daryl dressed in the clothes, Beth's imaginary fingers helping him with the tie on his pants, smoothing dirty hair from his eyes. _Look at me, Daryl. Don't give in. Don't let them break you. Fight. Fight for your family._

He looked at her, looked through her to Dwight, who frowned at him.

"What you lookin' at, jackass?" Dwight hissed.

Daryl raised his head, straightened his slumped back, clenched his limp hands.

 _Don't let them break you,_ Beth repeated as Dwight grabbed him by the arm, dragging him away to God knows where.

 _Fight for your family. For Glenn, for Denise, for Abraham, for Merle. For me._

 _Fight, Daryl,_ Glenn joined in the chorus.

 _You gotta fight, little brother._


	38. Feeling Cooped Up

Beth woke up that morning in the foggiest of all fogs and instantaneously decided that today was _not_ going to be a good day. She threw on clothes and boots, tossed her hair up into a ponytail, frowned at her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she splashed her face. Tearing down the staircase into the kitchen, she found her sister and her nephew munching on homemade oatmeal and sipping orange juice.

Maggie's eyebrows knitted at the sight of her sister in such a frazzled state. "What's got you all riled up?"

"Just . . ." Beth grabbed a glass and poured orange juice for herself. " . . irritated."

"Irritated? You just woke up. What could you be irritated about already?"

Beth tossed back the juice and quickly washed out the glass in the sink. She didn't bother to give an answer even when Maggie voiced the inquiry again, or when Hershel pulled at her sleeve as she made for the back door and finally, _finally_ freedom. She checks on their garden—the carrots and potatoes are coming along nicely, as are the tomatoes—and heads around the side of the house for the street, where she encounters Carl and Enid, Judith holding either of their hands between them. All three greeted her; Judith was the only one Beth bothered to reply to.

She crossed the street, passing through front yards and back yards before she came to the garage door she had intended all along. Slinging it open and trudging through, she didn't wait a heartbeat to voice her woes.

"Can we go on a run today?"

Daryl glanced up, more like _glared_ up, from his motorcycle where he was tweaking and wrenching and doing God knows what to the machine now.

"Why?"

Beth eased onto the stool beside him. "I just wanna get out of here. Wanna get away from these walls and these houses . . ." She picked the rag from his back pocket and wiped grease off his cheek as he worked. "It's not that I don't like the safety of it all . . . I just feel like I can't _breathe_ sometimes."

"Don't need to go on a run." Daryl grunted as he found something disappointing with the bike. He asked for another tool and she handed it over. "We went two days ago."

"I'm not talking about a supply run. Just a run — just to _do_ something." She rose and slung her leg over the seat of the bike, disturbing his work and him. "Just to get out, breathe fresh air, explore a little."

"You need to learn to be content where ya are, girl." He cleaned his hands off on the rag as he set aside his tools and sat behind her on the bike. His hands rested on her hips and his chin settled on her shoulder. "What's gotten into ya today?" he whispered in her ear.

"I want to get away." It was honest—her answer.

"From here? From Maggie? From me?"

"Not from you. Never from you." She nuzzled backwards into his chest, letting her head rest on his shoulder and her lips graze his jaw. "It's just . . . I was out there so long. No walls. No . . . boundaries."

Daryl didn't resist her touches, but fell into each little caress.

"Don't want ya goin' out there an' gettin' hurt, Greene." This was whispered by her temple, his hands leaving her hips to encompass her waist. He didn't want her to go anywhere without him ever again, but he knew that was impossible and absurd and he wouldn't stop her because she was strong as hell and smart as hell and could definitely take care of herself.

"I won't get hurt."

"But ya could get killed."

She swiveled around to look at him. He didn't meet her eyes until her palm took his chin and forced him to look at her.

"See that?" she pointed with her other hand at the scar on her temple. He chewed his lower lip. "I've already died once. Somehow I got a second chance to live. Why would I waste it by always being scared to take chances?"

Daryl stared at that scar until she grew silent, then he leaned in and brushed his lips across it and hugged her again, shutting his eyes so tight fireworks exploded.

"I'm comin' with ya."

Beth beamed and nothing was more priceless.

"Can we go to the pond?"

The pond - a tranquil and nearly untouched body of water in the middle of the woods over seven miles away, encompassed by dense forestry and fences. In the sweltering summer heat, the pond's dark, cool waters would be a welcome vacation.

He smirked. "Sure. But we gotta scavenge some. Can't come back empty handed."

Beth swung herself upright off the motorcycle and gave his cheek a loud kiss. "Pack your bags and gas up! I'll be right back!"

He watched her go, and the ache in his chest swelled but was calmed by the hope and the knowing that he would see her again soon. It would never get easier - the ache, the fear, the terror of thoughts that every time he saw her could be the absolute last time.

It would never be easier. But it wasn't hurting so much now that she wasn't hallucination. Now that she was real and breathing.

Minutes later, Beth raced back into the garage with a bag stuffed with towels, snacks, and water. Daryl's bike roared to life as she hopped on behind him and they raced for the Alexandrian gates, soaring for freedom.


	39. Fire and Grace

She's fire and grace, light bursting forth from her skin and her smile; her voice leaves him wanting for something that he's never allowed himself to yearn for, and when she leaves him, in a sharp blast of fury and reflexes, he crumples like the paper from her journal burning in their fire and he gives into the demons that have screamed for his return.


	40. Trucker Stop

Easing the cab into the parking lot, Daryl parked the eighteen wheeler in the designated parking for big rigs and then headed for the bright lights of the diner. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and scratched at his chin, mentally reminding himself for the third time that day that he needed a shave once he got to a motel and found some peace and quiet for a few hours. The chilly air motivated his legs to move faster; once he got inside, he seated himself at his usual booth and waited for service.

He stopped at diners all the time, all over America. The food was the same, the place was the same, the sticky tabletops were always exactly _the same._

But the waitstaff sure wasn't.

There was a certain waitress at that certain diner in Georgia, who was young and blond, who's light was still bright and alive, who wore braids in her ponytail and cowboy boots with her dingy uniform.

She hummed while she worked. Sometimes he would catch her singing along to the jukebox. She was nice to him. Not artificially polite like most waitresses, or most folks even, but actually kind. _Genuinely_ nice. Most folks didn't like him because of who he was, for what he did with his time and his life.

But she smiled at him as she walked up to his booth and she asked where he's headed this time around like they're old pals and it's only natural for her to inquire about stuff like that. She always remembered what he likes on the menu. She always made sure to bring him the freshest coffee and his cup was never empty.

She was one of the only people he had ever known to make him feel welcome to be who he was. To accept that. Not to be ashamed of it.

He's a redneck, a trucker, a piece of white trash.

But she didn't care about all that. Didn't seem to mind it.

Most nights it was just him, the waitress, and the cook in the whole place. She would sometimes strike up a real conversation with him, usually when she brought his food. Over the months he had learned that she was a junior in college, she was working at the diner to pay her student loans, she was a musician and her family had a farm a few hours away in Sharpesburg.

He had never revealed anything about himself other than his job. She didn't even know his name.

 _Beth._ That was her name. Simple, short, and sweet - _exactly_ like her. Sometimes he thought about Beth when he was on the road; sometimes he would be somewhere, in a store or what-have-you, and something would remind him of her, make him think _hmph, she'd like that._

Tonight she wasn't herself. She wasn't chipper when she greeted him, she didn't hardly smile. He didn't want it to, but worry constricted his ribs and made his stomach violent. He was _worried_ about her - this waitress, this _stranger_. This sometimes-friend. She took his order - she had to ask this time what he wanted - and walked away immediately. She didn't come back with coffee. She didn't come back at all until she brought his meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

"Need anything else?" Beth sighed as his plate clattered on the tabletop. There were red spots in her cheeks, in her blue eyes. Her lips were pale and cracked. She had never looked so distraught, so fallen apart, in the time he had known her.

Daryl shook his head and she went away again.

He tried to push away the worry he felt, but it nagged at him like a dog chewing relentlessly at a bone. That feeling wouldn't stop till he got to the marrow of the situation.

Daryl ate his food without much appetite. He watched her from his booth as she cleaned the countertops with vengeance and vigor, mumbling to herself. Once she caught his eye and he looked away for good, finding much more interesting sights in his lumpy mashed potatoes. Later, she brought around the coffee pot and finally filled up his mug. He mumbled his thanks but she didn't leave this time. She sat, her tray and notepad clattering on the Formica. Daryl nearly jumped out of his skin. He spilled a little coffee, grabbed a few napkins to clean it up.

"Sorry," Beth breathed. She dropped her head in her hands. "It's been a bad day and I really need to sit down."

Daryl tossed the coffee-soaked napkins onto his finished plate. "Alright." He watches her for a second before feeling like a pervert again and looking away, only there was just the two of them and the cook in this place at this time of night. And the cook was on his smoke break.

"My boyfriend cheated on me," she whispered after the longest silence of his life.

Daryl's attention snapped forward and the curse spilled from his mouth without his control.

" _Bastard_."

Instead of reprimanding or gasping in shock, Beth burst into laughter.

"Yeah. He is." She played with her apron strings. "I slapped him," she whispered. "I can't believe I _slapped_ him."

Daryl swished his straw around in his Coke. "Sounds to me like he deserved it."

Beth chortled. "Yeah. You don't even know the half of it."

He looked at her. Just looked at her dead on and the worry in his chest contracted again, digging nails and thorns into his heart, his soul, and something, a tiny seed of light and goodness that still somehow, God only knows, existed deep within cried out for him to help this girl. To be her friend, if only for this one night. To show her the kindness she had showed him.

"Tell me the half of it."

Her eyes widen but the story empties out of her without much more prompting. Halfway through Daryl finds himself grabbing napkins and handing them to Beth to wipe her weeping nose and eyes.

"This Jimmy kid needs his ass beat," he said when she had finished her tale of woe.

That gets another laugh out of her; she doesn't disagree with what he saiid. "I'm sorry I put all this on you," she apologized. She had cried and cursed and she looked red and puffy but relieved. "I really needed to talk to someone. My sister just had a baby and I can't get up with her or my mom."

"Ain't got nothin better to do."

Beth smiled, uncertainty and gratitude written into the action. She tilted her head, staring at Daryl, staring _through_ him. "You're nice to me. Why?"

Daryl drew back into the booth's seat. There he was - shying away from the light once more like the past half hour hadn't even occurred.

"Could ask you the same thing."

Beth blinked those long eyelashes, her lips pursed curiously.

"I'm nice to you because you're a person."

Daryl didn't know how to take that so he said nothing else as Beth wiped her eyes a final time, muttering apologies, and got up from the booth, taking his empty plate and cup with her. He watched her take the dirty dishes to the kitchen as he got up and headed to the register to pay his ticket. She met him there and took the card he handed her, even the tip that was way too much for the meager meal and the coffee.

They exchanged _have a good night_ s and he went to leave, feeling that strange pull on his chest again because he was leaving her, the only anchor he had in this world. The only person he had that he thought about when he wasn't around them. The only person who had ever treated him with endless kindness, respect, and grace.

He swung open the door, sticking a complimentary toothpick between his teeth, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and there she was, smiling through her puffy eyes and red cheeks and cracked lips.

God, she was pretty. No, not just pretty - _angelic._

"You forgot your receipt," she said. She held it out to him, one hand on his shoulder, the other getting closer to his own. "Daryl Dixon," she added.

He glanced up; she smirked.

"I had to find out your name from a receipt slip. You seemed a bit reluctant to tell me."

Daryl took the receipt. "Thanks."

But she didn't let him go. Instead she hopped in front of him as he turned to leave a second time and threw her slender arms around his neck, tugging him down to her height. He stiffened and refrained from touching her in return. He didn't want to ruin it. Didn't want to taint her or that moment, because he knew that it would be something he would now think of often when the road seemed an infinite stretch ahead of him.

"Come back soon, Daryl," she whispered into his ear as she stepped back. He kept his head down as he nodded, mumbled a goodbye, and walked outside.

He cranked up the rig and drove towards the exit. He checked his mirrors and there he found a little blond girl waving to him through the diner's window from beneath the OPEN 24/7 neon sign. She was smiling now and it touched her eyes.

 _Come back soon!_ she called, and he could tell what she was saying even though he couldn't hear it.

He would come back soon - as soon as possible.


	41. Little Surprises

She can't tell him first.

She's freaking out because she has to tell someone, _anyone_ , and even though she wants to tell him...

He's outside the walls today.

She glances around their bathroom frantically and grabs the robe on the back of the door. It's 60 degrees out with a breeze; she'll freeze without it.

It minutes she's dashing across the street at midmorn. People are out and about and they're staring at her frazzled form as she races up the steps to her sister's front door.

She pounds away at the wood with her fist until Glenn answers. He's just gotten off his watch and he looks worn, exhausted, but he still immediately picks up on her harrowed expression.

"Beth? What's wrong?"

She fidgets with the tie on her robe. "Is Maggie here?"

He shakes his head. "She's in the gardens. Why? Are you okay?" And then his hand is on her arm and he's pulling her ever so gently inside and she doesn't even brush him off because his comforting touch is nice.

Her brother in law peers down at her with concern as she babbles an excuse to go find her sister when it just spills out of her mouth with abandon.

"I'm pregnant, Glenn."

His eyes nearly pop out of his head as his pupils restrict and he inhales sharply.

"Yeah...maybe you _should_ go talk to Maggie."

* * *

Maggie is just where Glenn said she was-elbow deep in soil and sweet potatoes.

"Maggie, I need to talk to you." She's still shaking and it's not due to the chill of the air.

"Kinda busy right now."

Beth sighs, sinks into a crouch, and leans real close so that the others in the garden won't hear her.

"Maggie...I'm pregnant."

* * *

They head back to Beth's house and her bedroom, and as Beth gets dressed for the day ahead and work (which she can't even think about right now honestly), Maggie sits there in stark, shocked silence.

"Y'all use...protection, right?"

Beth sighs. "Of course we do!"

"And you've only done it _with_ protection?"

" _Yes_."

"Are you sure nothin' happened to the con-"

Beth looked up sharply, blushing.

Maggie glanced down. "To the rubbers."

"Not that I can think of."

"Bethy..." Maggie heaves a breath. She touches her sister's hand. "Bethy, it's okay to be scared."

"I-I'm not scared so much as surprised! Daryl and me...we wanted to wait a while...we wanted..."

"Bethy. Does he want kids?"

Beth nodded. "Yeah."

"Do _you_ want kids?"

Beth froze.

Her mind went blank and then she finally, finally found it in her to answer.

"I thought I did...now, I don't know."

* * *

She's standing there waiting when he gets back and he raises an eyebrow at the sight of her.

"Ain't you supposed t' be on watch?"

She bites her lip. "Sasha took over for me."

And then the raised eyebrow turns into a small frown and he pulls her close, his hands on her waist, and steals a quick kiss.

"You alright?"

She shakes her head and his frown deepens.

"Well, I mean...Daryl, I gotta tell you something."

"What is it?"

And he's peering into her eyes like he already knows so she just says it, even though Aaron's right there, and Rick, and she knows she should wait-

"Sweetheart, I'm pregnant."

* * *

After receiving bewildered looks from their friends, Beth had grabbed her husband's hand and dragged him home without even a goodbye to Rick or Aaron. Or her usual thank you for bringing him back safely.

Nothing else is said. She immediately launches herself into making their evening meal even though she feels nauseous and doesn't even want to think about food. Daryl follows her around like a forlorn, worried cat for several minutes.

"Babe, do you wanna talk about it?"

She huffs, slamming down a glass casserole dish. She doesn't face him. She can't.

She should've told him in private and she hates herself for it. She should've just _waited_.

"Why don't you go take a shower?" Beth sighs once again. "You stink."

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his fists clench and then he mumbles an answer and turns away, leaves, and clomps up the stairs. She stays still, listening as Daryl turns on the shower, before she slowly gets back to work on supper.

Half an hour later he comes back downstairs in a wifebeater and sweatpants; he grabs them plates and she serves up their dinner of potato casserole and vension steak.

They sit down at the table by the window and they eat in silence for a while.

"So how was the run today?"

Daryl chews loudly on a piece of deer fat.

"Alright."

One word replies. _Great_.

"Did you find anything good?"

"Yeah. Some medicine. Some canned goods."

"Nice."

After dinner, they wash their dishes and when Beth announces that she's ready to retire, Daryl just nods and they ascend the stairs together this time.

She heads straight for the bathroom to get ready for bed and ask she walks in there, she remembers that morning, all of the panic, all of the frantic running around to find Maggie and all of the discussions about how she should tell Daryl.

Beth quickly changed into her pajamas; walking back into the bedroom, with the dying sun spilling into the room, she looks around to find the balcony door open and her husband standing out on the ledge smoking one of his precious cigarettes.

" _Hey_ ," she stomps over, not exactly angry but the feeling of more panic rising in her stomach. He glances up just as she grabs the cigarette and stubs it out in the ashtray on the rail. "You can't smoke around me anymore. I'm _pregnant_ , remember?"

She's shaking again and he notices but he's angry, angry at her forcing him into silence, angry at the way she just blurted out this huge news in front of everyone.

He sidles closer, fists clenched, jaw flexing.

"Then why don't ya wanna talk about it?"

Beth recoils, wrapping her arms around herself.

"I-I don't know...I'm just-" she glances out over their community and she feels the tears eating away at her eyes. "I'm _terrified_."

She thinks he'll still be mad, continue on yelling at her, but, instead, she feels a rough palm on her upper arm and she immediately relaxes, instantly melts.

She peers up and everything about him has softened and he's coming closer, his hands encompassing her elbows entirely, and his lips caressing her hairline.

"And ya think I'm not?"

"It's just that...Daryl, we talked about waiting to have babies."

"Well, We've been married what?"

Beth mentally counted. "Three months."

Daryl's eyes widened.

"So it was a little quick."

"A little? I talked to Denise, and even though she hasn't done a full check up, she thinks I'm eight weeks along."

His eyes widen even more - just like Glenn's, just like Maggie's.

"So you're two months in already?"

"...Yes. That's what she thinks."

He sighs. Releasing her, he crosses his arms and rubs at the stubble on his chin.

"We need to get ya a check up with that OBGYN at the Hilltop."

"I was thinking about it-"

"I could talk to Rick. We've got to go do a trade tomorrow with 'em. You could tag along...get looked over while we're there."

"Yeah, that sounds great-"

"Maybe do an ultrasound."

Beth slams her hands down against the rail.

"Yes, I need a check up, and yes I would love to tag along - but I gotta ask - are you happy?"

And then he stills.

His eyes widen once more. His fingers pause on his scruffy chin.

And he reaches out, he touches her stomach just above her belly button, and she can suddenly feel the soft mound beginning there.

"Hell yeah I'm happy," he breathes with nothing but awe. "It's more than I could ever ask for."

* * *

So the next day, the group headed out of Alexandria in the RV. The vehicle was loaded down with crops, medicine, and other tradable items like clothes and toiletry necessities.

Beth sat at the front between Michonne and Maggie; Rick was driving, Daryl was riding shotgun, and Glenn was across the aisle sitting next to Morgan and Eugene.

"How are you feeling?"

Michonne's question startles Beth, and she jumps a little as she turns to look at the woman next to her.

"Um, alright I guess. Just a little queasy."

Michonne patted Beth's leg. "That's natural. Hate to break it to you, but it's only gonna get worse."

"So I've heard."

Maggie and Michonne went back and forth over the next hour giving Beth tips and advice about the early stages of pregnancy, about morning sickness and what she should do to keep healthy.

Then they arrive and Beth is just grateful for the fresh air and the space. Even though she appreciated it, even though she loved how much they cared, she can't take another minute.

She's the first off the RV and everyone spills out around her, grabbing supplies to haul to their proper storages.

Daryl's hand lands on her shoulder and she jumps again.

He frowns at her. "You good?"

She takes a shaky breath and exhales. Reaching up, she threads her fingers through his and kisses his knuckles.

"Just nervous."

He nods and starts to move, pulling her with him. "Cmon. Doc's waitin' for us."

"But, what about-" she turns back, watching the others unload the RV box by box. "Don't they need our help?"

Daryl glances behind her and locks eyes with Rick, who gives him a small nod, and Daryl looks back to his wife and gives a smile.

"Naw. They got it."

The doctor greets them with enthusiasm and joy, shaking both their hands and making the comment, "Just so glad to hear about another life instead of another death, Y'know?" And then he frowns to himself and says, "Sorry. That was dark."

Daryl grunts in agreement and the two of them follow the Doc into his office. They chat for a while, and he asks her so many questions that she does and doesn't know the answers too, and then finally, /finally/, it's time for the ultrasound.

She's shaking again.

But he takes her hand as the doctor smears cold blue goo on her lower belly and tells her to breathe, just breathe, everything should be fine.

There's a few moments of silence on the machine. There's random beeping.

And then there's a blob.

A tiny little blob.

A baby.

Their baby.

And she gasps, and Daryl gasps a little bit, and then they look at each other and she's nearly crying.

The doctor grins. "Baby's heartbeat sounds healthy."

And so that afternoon, after all the trading is done, the group loads back on the RV and Beth is clutching the sonogram. Daryl tells Michonne to take shotgun and he settles in beside his wife, his arm wrapping around her shoulders to keep her close. Together they look at the ultrasound and the tiny blob that's a little bit of him and a little bit of her.

Maggie sits forward from across the RV's aisle, eyes eager and lips smiling. "Is that it?"

Beth meets her sister's gaze and grins, nodding, and hands over the picture.

"Yeah. Denise was right. I'm about two months along."

The picture gets passed around just like Maggie and Glenn's ultrasound of little Hershel had been, and as it is, Daryl presses his face into Beth's hair and smiles.

"Thank you," he murmurs. _For everything_ , goes unsaid.

Beth nuzzles deeper into his side and takes his hand, gently laying it over her middle. "Anytime," she half-teases, and falls into a dreamless rest as the RV rocks around them.


End file.
